Sometimes, I feel like a trinket on the mantelpiece of your life,
a small sentimental reminder,
my significance forgotten.

You search your mind for why you ever picked me up,
with delicate, fumbling fingers,
all those years ago.

And I'm lost in the chasm of your memories,
all you can see now are my scuffed porcelain cheeks,
my chipped shoulder blade.

The wonder is gone;
you cast me away,
as if I had always meant nothing to you.

We are stuck in a memory, a time that no longer exists. Haunting the abandoned cavities of chests, the still chambers of hearts, we are living in a standstill. When we gather the courage to speak our piece, we are failed by the echoes reverberating off of hollow walls.
We are waiting for someone to break the back and forth, to hear something other than white noise,
the ticking of a clock,
and our worn out affections that have long since lost their worth.
We are ghosts living in the ashes of old flames,
until life is brought back into these bones,
or we are laid to rest in our graves.

Isn’t is strange how we notice things when it is too late?
This is probably the last time that all of us will be in the car together. There will be no more midnight drives from hillside theatres. No more 2am dinner plans at kerbey lane.
This is the first time that I have noticed that you twirl your hair when you drive. My eyes have shifted from cityscapes flying across backseat windows to watching you wrap your hair around your finger.
It’s not slow and flirtatious, but quick and desparate, as if you're trying to distract yourself from the fact that we are growing up. It’s making me anxious, but I can’t look away.
This is the first time that I noticed the change in our silence. We are driving down nearly empty highways, and we are leaving behind our time. We are no longer laughing, and this silence doesn’t feel like it usually does. For once, none of us have anything to say. Or maybe, we know that there is not enough time to say all of the things that we should and want to say.
This is when I noticed how much I love driving down empty highways at midnight. Everything is slow, there is no rush, and, for once, there are no expectations of me.
I am finally, truly noticing that there will never be enough time to tell you all that I love you,
to hear you talk about science,
to hear about your travels,
to talk to you about your struggles,
to drive, and laugh, and cry with you,
to watch you twirl you hair.
Now, we have grown up, and our distances will strain our years of friendships,
and there will never be enough time with you.

I'll never let you fall,
I'll stand up with you forever,
I'll be there for you through it all,
I'll never let you say never.

And if we both fall in the end,
I won't let you break nor bend,
I won't stop the love I wish to send,
Because you are my friend.

Should I be trying to repair the bridges that she so easily burned?

If you are afraid of the unrequited, there is a chance you might have learned it from a parent. and you were probably young; children are too impressionable. it lingered in the air and echoed through the silence when you asked your mom when you were going to see dad again. the word “unrequited” is a taste bud on the back of your tongue that will always remind you how even the sweetest things turn sour.

If you are afraid of the unrequited, you will start to type a message to your friends because the loneliness has become to heavy, but you will always be stopped by the sour taste of trying to swallow your pride.

If you are afraid of the unrequited, you might apologize for yourself every day and tell people that you wouldn’t blame them if they cut you off. maybe being alone will feel a little easier if you are certain you did something to deserve it.

If you are afraid of the unrequited, you might go out in public to make sure you are seen,

talk to yourself to know that you have a voice,

watch strangers converse to convince yourself that everybody has somebody, even you,

you might write poetry to try and teach yourself the lessons on the love that was never requited to you.

A touch,
A subtle understanding.
Never commanding,
Yet body language demanding
For the attention. For the affection.
An awkward gift; the thought that counts,
Wishing for your smile upon every ounce
Of effort their hearts pronounced.
The “I’m here for you”s, the “I’ve been there too”s.
They hold you when you cry—
Perhaps it’s because I was never held as a child
That I do it so easily.
They see me, for all that I am;
I was once an innocent sham.
****. I blurted out my thoughts in the moment.
They don’t scare.
Mirrored stare
Back ...at... me.

I always associated “friends” with “ends.”
A touch, a subtle gesture of reciprocated love
From friends.
I find myself, not alone, with the safehood of vulnerability.

Please don’t go. I need you.

I don't even know his face
I don't even know if I like him
I don't even know if he is my dream prince

But I don't care anymore
His very existence can make me smile
His fatherly words, as if I'm his daughter
Already enough to make me feel loved

Even though I've been fooled before,
Somehow I trust him fully
Even though I vowed to never love again,
Maybe this is my second chance