At the age of seven, I fell in love with a boy.
David made my heart race with anxiety.
I yearned for the simple touch of his hand holding mine,
to embrace him with my small, fragile arms,
and tell him how much I cared,
but I never got the chance.
I was just the girl in his first-grade class.

His brown hair flows down his neck,
then stops quietly before reaching his shoulders.
His eyes warm golden specks of light.
Your lips soft pink, waiting to be kissed passionately,
by someone, you'll someday love.  

The second has passed.
Time resumes it's place,
and I forget how to breathe.
You made me genuinely laugh and smile,
something I haven't done in months.
You haven't crossed my mind in ten years,
yet you still have this dangerous effect on me.

But it's not me who's in love.
It's that soft-spoken girl in elementary school.
The girl that laid in her twin size bunk bed,
looking at your yearbook picture fondly,
wishing you were hers,
remembering you will never be.
                              ...
I love hearing you explode with joy
when you talk about your hopes and dreams.
I love seeing your endless compassion for others;
you have such a beautiful soul.
You would do anything and everything for me.
I love the touch of your body against mine after being apart.
I love the taste of your lips when you kiss me with such intensity and desperation;
makes me fall in love with you over again.

I think of what could be as I walk to my car,
carrying a paper bag filled with oranges and water.