Falling in love is just that: a tumble down from the curl on his forehead teasing me with whispers of softness to broad shoulders dented at the juncture of collar and bone.
Falling in love is my head softly sinking into that shoulder nook, his arm dropping to my waist, cinching me against him, molding my walk to the cadence of his stride.
Falling in love is a thoughtless descent from one person to two, from independence to you. I’m not me anymore, I’m We and while there’s nothing wrong with that there’s nothing to say it’s gotta be right.
I was thirteen and you were more. More in age, more in knowing, more in wanting. I was thirteen and you were hungry. I was thirteen and I was falling.
Your name was Chris. Could be still, though maybe you added a Topher to remind the world you’re still more.
My name wasn’t important. “Girl,” “sexy,” “mine.” I thought it was cute, but now I’d like those few extra sounds added to remind the world I’m still here.
Falling in love isn’t something I’m going to do again.
Next time, I’m gonna rise.