I look at her
I do not see her skin.
It crosses my mind that she is different,
but only for a moment.
I am not concerned with the differences;
I worry only about her tears that fall
and her heart that weeps.

The darkness of her skin
does not affect the diverse beauty of her face
nor the beauty of her soul.
I hold her close,
comforting,
wishing I could remove the pain
but I cannot understand the sorrow she knows.
The heartless gestures of a bigoted man …

Though we try to ignore our ethnicity,
neither can ignore the hate that surrounds us.
The words of one man,
so harsh,
have opened her eyes.
She suddenly sees me
as “one of them.”

She pulls away from me,
still sobbing.
I wish that we could be the same.
But we are not.
And the beauty of diversity
has lost me a friend.