You don’t fall in love with the boy you lose your virginity with.
The closest you get is when he’s inside you and your stomach is in knots from holding in the hysterical laughter. Because this is what all those sonnets and songs and novels are about? It’s disappointing.
For a second the sunlight hits his shoulder and you think of the statue you saw in the gallery. But then you squeeze your eyes shut and when you open them he’s just a boy and your heart isn’t stuttering like it did when you laid eyes on the carved marble.
You don’t fall in love with the girl who slips her fingers into yours in the sand, but you come close when her eyes reflect the crashing waves. The shadows pool in her dimples and you wait for your heart to stutter. It doesn’t.
You don’t fall in love with the boy who texts you at one in the morning to wax poetic about his filthy thoughts. You admire his wordsmithing and delete his number.
You fall in lust with the girl who swings her legs like a metronome over the edge of the counter. Her smile makes you think of the sharp edge of a knife. You want to take her home and let her ruin you, but it’s not love.
You don’t fall in love with the boy who makes you feel worthwhile. You could. But you don’t. It’s not worth it.