Friendship

Her kisses are constricted
when she kisses
her lips twisted bliss in finesse
mimicking our obsession with the build-up of love
we hold between our beating chests, together
as it bursts from our ribs in florid peculiarity
when we stare at each other's pupils
and speak quietly to ourselves.

Her small hands gather my own, gently
"Your fingers are longer than mine" she muses
as she navigates us both off my course of failure
tugging me along to the corner store
by my white-shirted wrist
buying only spring water for her thirst;
driving my heart with just her voice like a siren,
she's a signal I ignore too often.

Still, a piece of 'childlike' spoils
in each our lonely, lovely young minds
candy-flossing up as we let it grow
without guidance like ourselves
or moldy angel wings whose tendrils we suffocate
every time we dance
holding hands, head to shoulder
carelessly waltzing over the vinyl foot of friendship
in our frayed hem glory on a parking lot.

The nature of our love molests me
fondly pokes, tickling toes and sides,
reminds-
until the tartness of my heart turns sweet
of capturing the flag,
fondling and squeezing two of hers
and the last two of my unstable scenes of surreal artistry
onto a strip of makeshift memory
as an eight-year-old film photographer,
or planning out our future on her moonlit notebook
after coffee.