to find a friend

i was the sky when you found me.

open, empty,

needing.

i was left alone,

like the mysterious socks who never make it back

from the washing machine

    i was dawdling.

making my rounds, just searching for a 

flower to pick

a reason to stop,

savor the smell lingering in the air

the scent of life

when i first met you,

i couldn’t figure out why you sat

so high.

it made me straighten my back, in class,

watching you perked up, listening,

raised hand at every question

and with your chin so high and smile so bright, i thought

 you conquered the top of the world

i quickly learned you usually have the worst posture known to man;

but you are every bit intelligent.

every bit fierce.

knowing you came easy; loving you

even easier. like an ocean

of flowing waves

natural and

uncontained, irrepressible

simply blue; simply 

you

like the glimmers of your heart that

aligned with mine; two stars

searching for a home.

somehow through

all the lunch periods we spent talking away the struggles,

all the classes we sat through giggling in our own corner

all the hallways we passed through- together

somehow you became a drug prescribed uniquely

for me; my own dose of daily medicine; 

my prescription for the condition

called life

you were you, i was me,

we met and the skies erupted; the artist and the writer

the thinker and the talker; the lover and the lover.

with every breath 

you believe in me. with every look

you tell me a thousand things at once;

“i’ll be your hope. don’t worry about a thing 

i’ll stick to your side like

sweet, sweet honey 

it’s you, it’s me,

 it’s you and me

that’s how it always will be”

they say that loving a writer will make you immortal

the words they spin, like threads of gold,

never lose shine

 even as the cover collects dust,

even as the muse lies buried underground.

in that case, you will never die

because i have yet to figure out how to stop writing about you

maybe loving a writer is like loving winter;

old but comforting, wrapped in copious warmth

the icicles don’t break

the snow doesn’t melt

and whenever it does, you know for sure

that winter will come again