The Nicest Thing.

I think about you, every so often, when a
90s pop song plays on the radio and how you
would choreograph the funkiest dance moves
and secret handshakes just for (us).

How we dreamed of being Victoria's Secret
models, the way we celebrated our youth
and our bodies, sexuality still a hushed
tone too sacred to acknowledge.

Our lips and words were young and naive;
we didn't know lust could be innocent
yet hold regrets and misunderstandings.
You once claimed you were an angel
and I didn't know what to say,
I wanted your divinity for myself.

I wanted you
so my soul would hunger no more.

We shared our secrets, slept with razors
in bed, wrote poems to our addictions,
too afraid and ashamed to do more
than place our problems in ink.

We couldn't predict each other.
You were in love with him and
I knew I could never indulge again.
We separated then found our way back,
currents in a whirlwind of tragedies,
gracing each other's body with
bitter herbs in the middle of the night
when

we had no one else around.

I didn't lose you this time;
I chose to leave before we decayed.

I promised myself I'd never write another poem
about a dead season,
but here, I am.

*title references one of Kate Nash's songs, one of our favorites*