she’s fifteen years of growing primrose,
she’s fifteen years of curly yellows,

this girl never truly hated anyone or anything,
I must confess, some of her words left me scratches and stings,

she’s nine months and three days in the humid summer,
she’s nine months and three days with a mood like winter,

this girl comes out at night when the moon is filled with her eyes of hazel,
no need for matches – she enters a room and she’s the candle,

she’s the one rose bud drifting in the wind standing out from leaves,
the one branch left to hang on the sides of the old orchid tree,

this girl is definitely the sun and the moon all complete,
the night blanket wrapping its arms around me to bring me heat,

she makes me realize what’s beautiful,
and things in this world that’s ephemeral,

this girl lets me know my life has only one writer,
before class i wish to hold her tighter,

even if all the,
stars fall,
time stalls,
planes crash,
fires ash,
birds die,
water dries,
memories drift,
and clouds shift,

this girl will always be my friend,
growing old together to the end.