We're friends, in the light.
You hug me playfully and scruffle my hair.
Maybe a kiss on the cheek.
But then the lights go down in the house,
and we listen to the performers sing.
Our hands touch like they used to.
You poke my nose and blow raspberries on my face.
I breathe playfully into your ear, like a puppy.
And you stroke my hair as I get sleepy.
I'm more awake when we get into the fight:
"I'm gonna pick your nose!"
"No, I'm gonna get yours!"
We giggle and get hushed.
We hoot and holler toward the stage at the end of each song.
I long to touch you, to kiss those lips I kissed for two years.
I know exactly how they'd feel.
Small and smooth, never chapped like mine.
I press your glasses
up the bridge of your nose
because I know you hate that.
We are kids again.
Before our first kiss, first dance.
There are nearly ten
green glowing exit signs around us,
and I just need
to waltz with you
under them
like we used to.
You mention his name a lot,
and I shift uncomfortably
with ***** envy
just like 9th grade, right?
When you told me I didn't need one
after the kids told me about you and that guy.
I cried for days.
When the show ended,
we went to the bathroom together
and you complained about your hair.
We drifted outside, into the twilight,
and sang some songs.
One of them, which we harmonized beautifully on,
was "I can't help falling in love with you..."
and I followed you all around the front of the building,
swaying and letting some notes fly by
into the warm wind.
You do not love me like you used to.