I miss raw cookie dough and soft pajamas
and take-out boxes overturned on the couch
Lord of the Rings playing in the background
inaudible over our chatter

I miss sweaters and boots in Fall
crispness resonating in our senses
brown, sienna, and crimson Fall
the promise of the season
is rosy in our cheeks
just a camera and a forest,
with my beautiful best friend.

"Do you want to go shopping?" I say,
"we'll buy something nice,
get dolled up and do something spontaneous."
"i want to go on an adventure.
like bilbo and the dwarves
and we won't brush our hair for days."

"All of them, and more," she'd say.
"I'll go wherever you go."

My best friend is not an indie record or a mall trip
she is as vast and unwavering as the sea
and I'll go wherever she goes

Behind the windowsill I can't tell
if her lovely hair is white silk
or lands on her shoulders in black tendrils
does she like her body shape?
is she happy with her mother?
whatever she is,
whatever she's meant to be,
i miss her.

Crazy, selfish girl,
8 billion people on this earth
and none of them
are good enough for you, girl?
how can you claim to miss
what you never had?

My best friend is a feeling
I had one windy afternoon
I catch her in my fingers
and let her blow away

She came barreling into the room,
riding the back of a burnt out star,
her energy crackled and flickered
like flint against steel.
Blue half moons
where her eyes should have been,
simple constellations marked across her face
like maps of emotions and the truth behind her
lazy smile. Her energy took the breath out of me,
and mingled with my own galaxy,
reaching wave lengths of unknown mathematics.
I wanted to say something,
I wanted to touch her,
lightly, a whisper of skin only our
hearts could translate.
I knew something would soar between us,
sparks or maybe even a shooting star.
But she was gone as soon as she came,
an eon of stars following her out the door,
and I was already ten light years behind,
I knew I would never reach her in this lifetime,

but maybe in the next.

I am loud,
Demanding attention.
I know when I am being charming
Because I try.
I put on my impressing face
And do my impressing hair
And speak my impressing words.
I tell you my embarrassing drinking stories
And everything else about me
That you probably shouldn’t know.

I am not good at being quiet
Because that’s not who I am.
I am not the sweet girl
Who will leave you with a smile
And a touch
And a glance
Or a single word.
There is nothing of this fashion of romance
About me.

I am the girl who will point out your flaws,
And take you outside to see the stars,
And remind you how human you are,
And what a wonderful thing that is.

I am the girl who will talk about science,
And music and theology and history,
And point out constellations, laughing,
When you don’t know the big dipper’s name.

I am the girl who will make witty references,
To classic literature and science fiction,
And will tell you stories of how I once,
Made a gingerbread replica of a lighthouse.

I am the girl who will stand on a table,
And sing at the top of my lungs on the highway,
And act like a chicken or quail or velociraptor,
Or nuzzle your face like a lion to make a point.

I am the girl who takes too many shots
And then coaxes you to bed on a Russian liver,
And knows all the right places to bite, and tease,
And follows with exceptionally coherent pillow-talk.

I am not a thin silk scarf on the wind.
I am not a thing hard to capture.
You would not spend a perilous journey
Through a wild, perfumed jungle,
Searching for my slender garments
Hung beside a pool
As I wail to the breeze.

Rather, I am the bird who flies overhead
Making too much noise
Distracting from the trail ahead.
A bird whose plumage proves
What an interesting life it must be…
What a colorful life for me…
Perpetually strange
The lone comic relief.

I am many things.
But I am not quiet.
Of this I am sure.

Out of the night that covers me,
      Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
      For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
      I have not winced nor cried aloud,
Under the bludgeonings of chance
      My head is ******, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
      Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
      Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
      How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
      I am the captain of my soul.