just gals being pals
it was her childhood bedroom,
with rosy pink walls and soft yellow lights,
that held a fragile heart made of cardstock and felt,
held together by glitter glue and hope.
she, herself, was bright and solid
and so very full of everything.
i could never quite touch her,
yet she made sure to hug me every time we parted.
i loved her ideas and her kindness and her talents and the way she saw herself.
i loved her laughter and her freckled cheeks,
and her hair that was never doing what she told it to.
i loved the fact that she could get along with anyone and everyone.
i loved that she could do anything and make it look wonderful,
so wonderful that i couldn't help but stare.
i would stay up at night, painting myself with a desperate smile and wishing that i could figure out how to be like her.
she loved me too, but not the way i loved her.
still. she loved my shyness. rather, she loved being the one to break me from it.
she loved my worried blue eyes
and my bone-straight hair that reached the backs of my knees.
she loved my shortness, because we matched.
i loved her and i didn't even know what it meant.
she loved me as a friend, and to be considered her closest companion
made me feel as though i had won the greatest contest.
i didn’t see it back when we were dancing in her basement
and jumping in piles of leaves,
unaware of the depth of this longing.
i still love her, but i have learned to love her only
in a way that will be requited.