Trust no one.
Not even boys with cute smiles.
Not even boys who are so close to being
magic it hurts to look at them.

Every time he smiled it was though the ground was opening beneath my feet, ready to swallow me whole— a never ending fall, and I was certain I would not reach the bottom, that I'd keep falling, stomach in my throat, heart pounding, breath quickening.

I miss my friend. Before the tension built and the tightness in my heart began to bring tears to my eyes.

I miss my friend. He always answered after the first ring. He’d always come right away. Whenever I needed him. Whenever I was helpless and lost. He was there. I never waited more than a minute.

I miss my friend. When the love was simple, and the laughter came in plenty. Quick wit and raucous happiness.

I miss my friend. In quiet simplicity. Music soft and the air reeking of paint, and all we discussed, all we saw, were colors, colors, colors.

Bubble gum and vanilla perfume is what I thought of when I dreamed about girls.
When I imagined myself with my own girl gang. Like in the movies.
Heart shaped sunglasses and matching bikinis.

It is so much better than that.

It is spilled wine and ripped jeans.
Laughter that makes your ears ring and smiles that ache by the end of the night.
She’s rubbing the ashes she spilled into my comforter, and I don’t even care.
She’s drinking a ***** soda out of a mug and stealing a pair of my sweatpants.
She’s teaching me how to properly curl my hair.

Every boy is unworthy.
She gets more beautiful with each passing day.
Intricacies buried deep inside her.
Little pieces of her uncovered bit by bit.

She paints.
She writes poetry.
She has a green thumb.
She likes her coffee black with a pinch of cinnamon.
She prefers foggy weather to sunny.
She loves foreign films.

Only friends who love deeply can fight so harshly.
Only girls who know each other inside and out can wreak such havoc with their words.
Roots tangled together beneath the ground.
Howls that harmonize under the light of the moon.

When I imagined myself with my own girl gang I didn’t realize it’d be a pack of wolves, starving for life and love.

There is something surreal about being alone in the car with a boy you love. Surrounded in the dark of night with the streetlights casting patterns across his skin. He’s smiling so wide you itch to reach over and touch, feel that sublime happiness for yourself. He puts on his favorite song and asks you to listen.

No, shh.
Turns the volume up.

Listen.

The car shakes with the beat, syncing with the pounding of your heart.

And when you put that song on later, laying in bed, your eyes squeezed shut, all you’ll see is the rush of night, the curve of his cheek, the soft spot behind his ear you yearn to press your lips to, his voice, so eager, urging, wanting you to know the song the way he does, and God, you want to. His hands curled around the wheel, reliable, safe, and you think about running your fingers over each knuckle, every callous, mouth open against his palm.

And that song, it will stay in the back of your mind. It’ll come with his smile and the revving of a car engine and lamp light that dances in puddles.