Supposedly

I was supposed to love you.

We did everything right. We met, we talked, we flirted, we went on a first date (and a second, and a third, etc...) We kissed, we kissed, we kissed, you asked me to be your girl, we kissed and then we broke up.

I was supposed to love you.

I cried the day you drove away from my house. I vowed never to date again. My sister and I made fun of you. I cried some more. I stayed in my room for a day and a half. I told my friends what happened.

I was supposed to love you.

I met another guy. We dated. I dumped him. I cried (and I saw that he did too.)

I found another boy and left him too.

And another one as well...

I was supposed to love you.

My mom told me one night that I wasn't over you, that I still loved you. She explained that your first love will always be the one you compare the others to. 

I was supposed to love you, but I never actually did. 

I loved the idea of you and the memories we made and the way I was never alone. I loved that your calloused fingertips played connect-the-dots with my freckles. I loved the music you listened to and how you were always dancing. I loved that you wrote me enough letters to read one every week for over a year.  I loved that you braided my hair. I loved that you never sunburned. I loved that your front tooth was a little crooked. I loved the scar on the top of your foot. I loved your family. I loved your originality. 

I loved, and I loved, and I loved.

I loved all those things, but I never loved YOU.