We sit together and I look at her.
Her medium length amber-orange hair,
Illuminated by the rising sun,
Her head blocking it like the moon during an eclipse.
Her face is one of legends,
One that could rival that of Paris' wife.
Upon it there is a plethora of brown-orange freckles
As magnificent and numerous as the stars in the sky.
Her eyes are two great wells of blue,
Portals into her mind and soul.
She catches my gaze and asks me if something is wrong.
Her nose moves up just a bit as she says this.
I don't know why,
But that scrunch is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.
I can't tell her the truth though.
I can't tell her about how I love the little accents she gives words.
I can't tell her about how dumb she makes me feel by comparison.
I can't tell her about how much I love her refusal to wear skirts and dresses,
Even though she wears them well.
I can't tell her about how my heart beats just a little bit faster when she says my name.
But I can tell her about how much I appreciate her friendship.
I can tell her how much her kindness means to me.
I can tell her that I was just staring off into space.
A white lie, but better than spoiling a friendship.
This is a painful existence--
Caring for someone and not being able to express it.
Even more painful though is moving on.
It is incredibly difficult,
But in the end the wounds of the heart heal,
And the friendship remains, better than ever before.