The first girl I ever had a crush on was soft. Soft curls, soft cheeks, soft hands, you would have thought she was a gift from the angels. I didn’t know then that I had liked her, only that it did not make sense not to.

The second who ever meant anything to me was cut from stone. Always took charge in the kickball line, spouted fireworks from her throat, and showed the whole school that girls can pack a punch. Liking her had resembled a bruise; temporary but painfully real.

The third one tasted like bubble gum. Perky and energetic, I could feel her happiness soldered to mine. I would have done anything to see her smile. Even let her go.

The fourth burned like whiskey. I knew she was bad for me the moment I got too close because after that, I couldn’t stay away. She was a remedy to the very own sores she created, she was my first love and I have a history of alcoholics in my family. We lasted too long.

And the fifth, sixth, seventh, all the other girls that came after had their own descriptions, their own stories sprawled across my skin. Each of them special. Each I owe a debt to never forget. 

None of them ever seemed the same because none of them were. We fall for different people at different times, because each moment in our lives asks for different things. Sometimes it’s warmth, sometimes it’s distance. We look for the people who we want until we find the people that we need.

I don’t know who the last girl will be. Only that she won’t fit within poetry. She’ll be the very feeling that I have been searching for in every other person I’ve met. She’ll be the one that I won’t have the words to describe. If I’m feeling romantic, I guess I can say, she’ll be the one that every other person I’ve been with has led me to. She’ll be the reason why this world believes in fate.