Eyes,
a violent shade of smoky grey,
intensity reflected in a singularly studious way.

At first,
a seemingly vexed connection
with us bickering constantly.
Almost too alike,
yet too different.

Midway through math,
our desks were a sea of disorder,
materials spread all over.
Poking and prodding me with a purple mechanical pencil,
a piece of lead now prominent in my skin.

7th grade-
she incessantly insisted that we should go to the “art room.”
Pulling out palettes with a myriad of paint,
I put my voice in color.
Art was like a breath of fresh air;
I could finally spill my feelings-
without words.

Now she was everything:
the moon to my sun
the peanut butter to my jelly,
the Batman to my Robin.
Until she wasn't

about two years later,
she’s flown off into another world,
the place she refers to as her “real home.”
But where’s my home without her?

An empty feeling of nagging,
a dozen painful memories,
my heart shattered into a million shards,
just like the memories that seemed so loving at first,
but now only unforgettable fragments lingering

I want to lose that last goodbye,
the icky feeling that accompanied it,
the tears that rolled reluctantly down my cheeks,
and the last thing she told me to do:

“Be happy”