The trees still hold your spirit,
drifting on the river,
floating on the wind.
This world is still ours.

This world of rocky streams,
and muddy hills,
and dirt paths with fallen leaves,
still belongs to us both,
and that hurts more than anything else.

My friends giggled and said,
"She's falling in love,"
and I'd laugh along,
but now I know the truth.

This is not falling.
This is being pushed off a bridge,
down, down, down into a chasm,
that smells and looks and feels like you,
aches of you-
and knowing that you don't want me like this.

Not as a classmate,
not as an acquaintance,
not as a friend,
not as a lover-
Not even as a person.

I think that hurts most of all.