I.
You sit beside me in english.
I don't know when
or why we started talking,
but we did.
Something about you seemed,
untouchable,
like I could reach out to feel
your fluffy curls
and then you wouldn't be there,
that it would be fingers
grabbing hopelessly at mist.
And that's what I loved.

II.
We talk constantly.
The teacher hates it.
She threatens to separate us,
and I can see your face growing red
as she openly lectures us on the disrespect,
and yes I felt bad,
but it meant talking to you.

III.
I curl into your solid chest,
my spine pressed tightly
against wiry muscle.
I can feel your arms wrap around me.
This is the warmest
and the safest I've ever felt.
Is this love?

IV.
We talk less.
I made you a Christmas present.
You cram the paper
into your backpack,
shrug,
and walk away.
I can feel the hot tears brewing
and threatening to pour.
My cheeks burn
and my fists clench.
I resist the urge
to reach out
and grab at mist.

V.
You're on the other side of the bed,
absentmindedly tapping at your phone.
I close my eyes
and silently wish
I was home.

VI.
We grow apart.
Organically.
There were a few spats,
but nothing outrageous
or as dramatic as I wish.
My mother still asks me about how you're doing.
I haven't seen you in a year.
And we haven't spoken in two,
maybe three.
Isn't that strange?

VII.
I wonder how you're doing.
My heart can't help but ache
to know that you are safe
and content.
And I don't know why
I'm tearing myself up
over an enigma
that is cold
and beautifully absent.