I’m sometimes a crappy friend.
For example, I just started a poem
about you with the word
“I”.
I occasionally wish you were quieter.
I rarely understand your fashion choices.
I’m guilty of using schedules as an excuse
to not work harder at spending time with you.
You know as well as I the amount of
times I’ve rolled my eyes at your tv shows.
But you’re something sparkling with magic.
You pull words out of me
in spirals that mirror galaxies
and late-night encouragements
feel as natural as smiling,
which works, because
I can’t help smiling around you.
You are an effervescent,
rolling, strong,
curlicue dynamo,
packaged inside hypnotic eyes,
adorable hair,
and a body enough to
make people around you feel comfort.
If loyalty was measured in paint splatters,
you’d be a Pollock painting – you grasp
hard to every surface you touch,
refusing to let people fade away.
You have days of chatter, when
you make people fall out of seats
from the laughter in your glance, and you
have days of silence, when your
soul blooms into melancholy -
your body has to regain equilibrium with the
overflow of beauty coursing through your organs.
I think that’s why you get headaches.
It’s so damn cliché to compare you to a sunrise, so instead,
I’ll say you’re like a midnight full moon, shining
in twilight. You reflect the love of others, destroying
our shadows, and we know that when you get
a complete handle on your own energy,
we’ll be f***ing blinded.
I know you sometimes hate the body
you’re given, but know this:
you’ll be your kids favorite cuddle buddy.
You have lungs big enough to scream your giggles, and
a liver big enough to filter all the s***
people try to hand you, even if it’s wrapped in
a neat little package.
Your hands are big enough help pick
up people you’ve never met, and
still have room left over to play slaps.
You have ears big enough to hear the nuances
in a four-letter text, and feet big enough
to teach even the most uncoordinated of people how to dance.
Your body is not a limitation. It
is a representation of all the badass ability
hidden underneath your dad’s old sweaters.
You sing like a bird and tigress,
little kid and old woman – sometimes
haunting, sometimes
fanciful, sometimes
strong, and always
winsome. I still want you to record something for me.
Again, I’m a selfish friend.
You have the creativity to
not know what you want to become.
I’ve always known what I would be. You
just know you’ll do something you love.
You aren’t pigeonholed; your fluidity
helps you discover new everythings at
a rate that would dizzy even the fastest retrieval dogs.
Your intellect reassures me and astonishes others.
“Maturity and insight layered between natural memory of Disney lyrics”
could be put on your calling card, and you’d
never be sent away.
The scars holding your skin together
could be indexed alphabetically, from An Accident, I Swear,
to Zebra, Striped like a,
each one subtracting callousness and
adding gentle support.
You are the closest thing to pure life,
and I envy you.