At fourteen, love was strawberry chapstick and friendship bracelets. Bubblegum shampoo and poetry on scented stationery. Love was Sharpie tattoos on forearms. Willst du mit mir gehen?
At seventeen, love was smoking Parisiennes in the parking lot of the local Coop. Love was bomber jackets in winter and pink skateboard wheels in spring. Love was clumsy. Fast. Selfish. Love used too much tongue. Ich will dich.
At nineteen, love was fucking in parked backseats. Fake orgasms and false eyelashes. Love kissed too hard, drove too fast, forgot too quickly. Ich bin kein Schlampe.
At twenty one, love wasn’t love. It was clenched fists and other women’s perfume. It was drunk poems on bar napkins, mascara stains on sleeves, bruised wrists. Fick dich.
And now, love is open arms and warm hands. Sharing blankets, toothbrushes, secrets, breaths. Love is never wanting to spend another night alone. Love is beautiful. Love is home. Für immer.
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