I would have been barely ten or eleven when we met. Her name was Ally and she had big brown eyes, thick black hair and a reputation for being moody. It was the classic beginning to any love story: wariness, even dislike on my part, indifference on hers.
Except that my first love was not a person, but a pony.
I floated three inches off the ground for the week after I first said ‘I love you’ romantically. I had said the words before of course, to friends and family, to my dog and drunkenly to strangers at parties, but this was different. This time the words meant something new and special. They had been a hot, prickly weight in my chest for weeks before I had uttered them; speech loosed them and left me unanchored, free from gravitational constraints.
Yeah yeah yeah ok, you were my first love. I once pulled my hair out thinking about you (us).
In that car parked in the cul-de-sac… our bodies intertwined, my fingers flirted across your shirt, across your pants, failing to reach the skin hidden underneath. I bet it was colored cream and of course, so soft and you knew it too: just how much I betted.
Nine years later and I tell myself that I ain’t trippin’. I’ve finally found some skin that loves me oh boy it does, and I love her for real.