the boy who used to be my best friend

when i was a young, young girl,
i played with this boy.

he lived next door
(cliche as that might be, it's true)

he had brown skin,
and cropped curly hair.

the boy had a sweet disposition,
quick to forgive,
and quick to find retribution. 
he was a bit mischievous,

he used to be my best friend.

we would play in my backyard together,
holding hands as we braved the trecherous 'forest'
-it was really just a rather large bush next to the fence- 
and leapt across huge chasms
-which was actually the space between these big rocks.

and now.

now, he's a stranger.

the boy has grown into a teenager,
one with a dog
who plays soccer
and has his own life.

what would he want to do
with a heavyset writer?

i can answer that one for you:

he would want nothing to do with me.

it's not that i find him cute or anything,
i just... i want what we had as kids.
when skin color or gender had nothing to do
with who you could be friends with.

when you could dream.
as a kid, you can dream.

you can dream of friendships long lost.

The End

0 comments about this poem Feed