she was the kind of person,
who didn't leave me in disgust when i was yelling
and loud
obnoxiously drunk.
she'd watch me mix different types of liquors in my mouth
from her own papas cabinet,
and we'd put the acrid mixtures
in Grateful Dead shot glasses,
and i'd turn up the music
until her mother would come downstairs, and we'd frantically hide the bottles
beneath peach bedsheets, and satin pillowcases,
and pretend i wasn't swaying like the ocean tide in five inch
stilettos.
sometimes i'll laugh
at the time when we were so small
that rooms seemed to swallow us whole,
doorways were caverns,
and glasses of water were lakes.
we'd jump on the bed,
and one time her mother came downstairs,
so mid-jump we pretended to fall asleep;
it didn't work very well.
she's the person who would make me watermelon juice, and bring me almonds
when my head was being kicked
over and over by a hangover,
she's the one who would latch frightfully
and laughing
onto my windblown clothing,
as i drove us full speed down the mountain,
ignoring her screaming of the speed limit.
i knew she loved it.
she's the one who i watched the stars with,
on warm concrete,
talking about what was up there,
in that vast abyss of
emptiness,
devoid of life,
nothing but spinning galaxies
and foreign stars.
we would get into fights;
i smoked too much,
she needed to loosen up more.
i didn't think before i spoke,
she thought too much about things.
i blurted out hurtful words too often,
she was too nice.
we argued with sweaty hands on school buses,
and we'd go swimming naked in frigid water,
angrily treading the river currents
to opposite sides of the beach.
i remember when i kissed a boy
for the first time at her house,
and she was snickering at us
watching from a window,
as we slow-danced
as the sun murdered the sky with burgundy, and we tripped on each others feet.
small, hasty kiss.
he looked longingly at me
over a campfire later,
(i never kissed him again)
she and i fell asleep with smoke in our clothing.
bonfire smoke
turned to cigarette smoke.
she'd scold me for destroying packs
when i had whooping cough.
she'd hide the chocolate in her cabinets,
because she knew i'd eat it all if i got my hands on it.
i'd watch her as she would
look into the eye of a camera,
or glide a brush latched with paint on its short hair,
onto a canvas;
her skin would glow like there were a million suns
tucked beneath it,
her face would open
like a wildflower blossoming in mid-summer,
as she drove her passion
into creating things she was destined to make.
she'd make me do my homework,
i'd make her take a shot.
she'd think about things, smart and calculating,
i'd throw myself into danger, flinging my limbs into the unknown.
she taught me to breathe in,
i taught her to exhale.
polar opposites.