yellow sundresses and
daisies curled under the glowing
crescents of your fingernails.
spring clung to you like the
stars to the moon,
dripping off your eyelashes
and tumbling out of your mouth
in a laugh that echoed
a gargling stream.
with my cheap rubber flip flops
and yellow hair that bled together
like spilt paint,
we etched our names on our hearts
and thrust them towards the sky,
embracing the droplets of rain
that ran down our fingertips
like a long slow dance.
our friendship thrived on
the chords of a guitar,
our sacred belief that we would never grow up,
which we clung to like religion,
the soft press of dying flower petals,
and mud that pooled around our ankles
and gushed out of us like blood.
“Grace, never grow up.”
Pinky promises, forgotten
and flung carelessly to the wind.
“Okay.”
final words,
smattering of glass,
a missing windshield wiper,
and your name smeared on newspaper headlines.
spring clutched at you like a disease.
forbidden smiles, blue eyes.
“Promise me, Grace.”
you wanted to go to Neverland,
never quite understood why Wendy left.
“I promise.”