My first love was a year older than I was, but that felt like nothing to a six year old who looked at him and saw the sun in his smile. He wasn’t the strongest, or the most beautiful, but he was the first, and that means more, I think.

The second was a girl much smaller than I was, but with a personality the size of a mountain. Her eyes were the color of freshly tilled earth, but I swear I saw a fire in them each time she smiled. I could have followed her for miles.

Next was much later, a boy with hair the color of straw, and eyes as blue as the water he feared. He made me laugh until my sides ached, and then some. He was not the first to tell me he loved me, but I think he was the first to understand what that meant.

Then came my best friend. Her eyes were the warmest brown. I never liked caramel until I met her. She was short and soft and sweet as honey. She never knew how much I loved her, and she never will.

Later came another girl with a personality too big for her body. She fell in love like she smoked her cigarettes. Which is to say, habitually and addictively, with no regard for her nearing demise, right around the corner. She fell in love with me, and it lasted as long as the cherry on her cigarette.

After her, I fell in love with another girl. This one had eyes the color of jade, of the moss on the trees, of dandelion leaves. Her hair was spun gold, then red fire, then blue as the ocean, then the purple of royalty. She is soft and warm, loud and ebullient. She is everything I ever needed, and I see her every time I look in the mirror.

Finally, I fell in love with a boy with hair and eyes the color of chocolate. He is sweet and loud and energetic, almost like a puppy. He makes me feel happy in a way I never have before. His touch is the softest I have ever felt, and I no longer fear letting someone love me back.