Lose you to the night

We talk as the twilight turns to dark ash, 

sit out on the porch and catch fireflies in mason jars--

only for a second, then let them fly.

You tell me about friends I barely know, and I nod and smile at you,

breathe in your laugh like it's oxygen.

When our feet grow numb and even your grandma's scratchy wool blanket

can't warm us, 

we go inside, begrudgingly,

to find cups of instant hot chocolate waiting on the kitchen table.

I watch how much you sip, making sure I'm not drinking

more than you,

because that's a new insecurity I have.

When all that's left in our mugs is unreachable bottom-powder,

you look at me with bleary eyes and say we should go to bed.

It's late and I'm tired, but I don't want to sleep, 

don't want to shiver in your too-cold room under too-thin blankets and wonder if you really want to be here.

With me.

You're my best friend, but...

I won't want to shut off the light, I'll want to talk until sleep is inescapable, because what if you leave?

What if you slip away through the always-open window, disappear under the dark blanket of sky,

escaping from my need to have you near,

escaping from everything I've ever said that I shouldn't have,

escaping from our friendship that's

cracking at the edges like my art-class pottery

once removed from the kiln.

(I never was good at clay.

You always were.)

Don't you realize that I can't live without you?
Can't even fathom a day without your hundred-watt smile, your texts on my phone

the second I wake up?

And I know that you have new friends, better friends,

but you're the best I have.

So even if you'll never love me

the way you once did,

the way I love you,

please whisper with me until the orange-pink light of morning

breaks through the horizon in its bright, blinding glory,

because I don't want to lose you to the night.