i wonder how we can be just friends.
how i can nonchalantly ask you
how your day was
(but only every other thursday
because anything more would be excessive)
and pretend i don’t remember us
curled like two commas,
my mouth on your shoulder,
your hips melting into my belly.
i don’t know how to delete the sound of our voices
as baby names passed through our lips.
ailey. ainsley. emma. jo.
we rolled each one around in our mouths like pearls,
small and round and smooth and deliciously foreign.
so forgive me, love,
that i cannot un-etch your name from my heart,
that i cannot forget the smell of your hair
or the taste of your teeth.
i cannot be a good friend – i cannot
be just friends –
until i am stricken with amnesia
and may no longer remember the way
you mumble in your sleep
or how we fell into Savasana
with our pinkies linked,
our hearts seeping through our fingertips.
i cannot be just your friend
because you will never be just mine.
you were my breath and my bones and the spaces between my words
and i cannot make you
into something you’re not.