Romantic Love is Not the Only Kind of Love That Exists
One day you will sit on a rooftop over a city so full of deepening pink sky that something inside you breaks, and for the first time in your life, you will not think about who you are going to fuck next. Or who will take you out to dinner next, or how they will make you feel when they see your bedroom for the first time. You will forget about the pulse in a man’s throat when he comes beneath your hands and how his sigh sounds like you always imagined it would.
One day, on this day, you will remember the love of your first drink, how the dark emerald of the swallow was so bitter you could have died for it, died for the beauty of firsts. How after several more swallows you lost count, and after losing count you woke up with hurt slicing through your head so gold that it almost tasted sweet. And your mother made pancakes with chocolate chips for breakfast, the secret so hot inside you, the swelling, gorgeous love of knowing something no one else in your family knew. And doing it the next night all over again.
You will delete all your dating apps. You won’t call back the stranger you only sleep with when you’re lonely; you’ll delete his number, and the number of the girl who only wanted to mess around with you when she was so high she had to remove all her lipstick in order to hear your face. You will stand alone in this apartment and wonder whether you made the right choice going to law school, whether you still have time to switch to art school instead. How the limes and blood oranges on the counter are so heavy with light that maybe you should just paint them now, right now, or ask your best friend to come over so you can draw her eyes, or the look on her face when her favorite song comes on the radio and holds her hostage in its deepness. You will rediscover the love of having your whole life ahead of you, with so many decisions in your way that you could die from the beauty of being able to choose who you turn out to be next.
One day you will sit on a rooftop over a city so full of deepening pink sky that something inside you breaks, and for the first time in your life, you will remember who you were before everything became about losing your virginity or sleeping with as many people as you could find, or the overwhelming pressure to go home with someone from a bar. Before everything became about the next lover, the next goodmorning texts, the next boyfriend to meet the parents. That love existed before love did, that you have only ever believed only one kind of love existed, romantic love, when all along there were so many kinds that you never saw, that you should have seen before now. You could have loved yourself so much better, so much earlier.