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.