You sought after, sparkling, shining ornament, you.
Hasn't anyone ever told you that you have diamonds for eyes?
When I say diamonds, what I really mean is a room full of mirrors.
Walls and ceilings and their endless streams of crystal laughter.
It echoes until I picture myself pulling my own hair out.
I grimace at the thought of the pain, so I braid it instead.

There's a surface harmony, I'd say.
If we were to wear our feelings as clothing,
you'd fit into an ensemble of red and roaring pride.
As for me, I'd find myself in the green shades of
hand-me-down jealousy.
When I say jealousy, what I really mean is
watching the boy I like look at you like you are Mount Everest
makes me feel like an anthill.
When he invites his best friend to join him and I for lunch
so "things don't get awkward" and asks me how you are doing
like you are a symphony
makes me feel like elevator music.
And when I say elevator music, what I really mean is
mindless, empty, nothing.
Unnoticeable.
Unappreciated.
Unworthy of being listened to.
He hears me, sure. But, he doesn't listen.

And that is not your fault.
You are not the one who broke my heart.
You are not the one who used distance as a weapon.
You are not the one who didn't care how it affected me.
You are not the one who didn't love me;
he is.

Friend, it is not because of you that I compare myself to
that one book that never leaves the shelf.
To dwarf planets.
To the first and last slices of off-brand, out-dated, white bread.
It is not because of you that I feel you are more and I am less.
It is not because of you that I have a hard time
swallowing my insecurities.
It is not because of you that I feel I am in a cage, rusty, hanging.
It is not because of you that I feel jealous.
That I feel unnoticeable,
unappreciated,
unworthy of being listened to.
It is because I have allowed myself to feel that way.
It is because of me.

Our friendship is a house I forget to clean,
a garden I have not watered in weeks.

Tell me, how else can fresh air ever come in
if you don't open the windows?

Please, forgive me for the achey, cold moments
where my "never mind" translated into "you made this mess".

You did not make this mess.
You did not make this mess, but you are complex.
And when I say complex, what I really mean is
you are paintings of baby cherubs and roses
on dome ceilings.
You take your time; I can be impatient.

Yet, my dear, dear friend,
your result is a masterpiece.

Friendship is a fine art and deserves to be treated as such.

And I
am so, so
sorry.