You asked for a poem,
but the truth is,
I don't know how to put us into words.
We are so imperfect.
But when I hug you, and lift your tiny, feather-weight self from gravity's grip,
there is nothing more familiar.
I could squeeze all night, try to squeeze you into myself,
where maybe I could keep you safe—be the hardened outer-layer to my little Lemon Drop.

We met at an age far from simple.
thirteen's complexities of spirit
is made up of much more than
ugly or pretty
white or black
sad or happy
mismatched or a puzzle piece fit.
It is made up of pieces, or wholes.

You came
olive skinned,
brown hair—with eyes to match,
laughter that tickled at the throat of any nearing neighbor,
and a smile that held both truth and fallacy.
The pretty one who fretted over petty.
You came,
In pieces.

I came
Fair skinned,
blonde hair and blue eyes,
an imagination that couldn't escape even itself,
and confidence unfit for such a character.
I came,
a whole.

Our friendship
came like love—unexpected and almost ungraceful
at first.
Our paths had history,
but this was where both of our stories began,
at the edge awkward
at the brink of becoming.

As time passed
it even felt like love now and then
I your rock,
you my little slice of sunshine.
As time passed
our bridges split our interests differed,
but we never lost sight of the pieces to our whole.