This is written by my friend Lilly. She's less of a poet and more of a writer (or so she says, but hell, I hid my passion for writing for years) but I thought that this deserved to be posted. She doesn't have an account, and is too shy anyways, s0 with her permission, I've put this into Other. I wasn't sure where it should go.
Tendrils of golden light caress her upturned face, brightening her sun-kissed cheeks.
Her smile cracks plump lips open and she laughs, an honest-to-god laugh that I haven’t heard in ages.
But the pain lingers in her soft caramel eyes, and I do the only thing I can think of: I sing.
Softly at first, then growing louder as she joins in. Her voice is low and deep, vibrating out of her throat and taking flight in the noonday sky.
And we stand there 'till it starts to rain, soaking us to the bone. Even though we’re both shivering and wet, we sing, letting out our pent-up emotions. Tears blur with the rain on our cheeks, and run down the hollow of our throats.
Finally I hear someone yell at us to get out of the dreary weather, and we steal a glance, flashing each other a small smile as we clomp through the puddles back to home.
Once we’re inside, that long-craved smile disappears and I am right back where I started.
And she goes back to taunting me, barbed jabs that do more than sting. Eventually I crumble and tell myself what I knew from the beginning:
She is older than me; she can take care of herself. I have bigger problems.
Because I’m not the fixer. I’m just as broken as she is. The only difference is that I hide it better and the people around me don’t look too closely.
I’m insignificant. I am nothing. I don’t… feel, people don’t care about me. My life is only the space between bouts of depression.
I am not special. But her? I can see it, despite the ignorance people feed it. They see it as oddity, I see it as a story that only she can tell. Because it’s hers.
But I just blend in. I’m bland, uninteresting and untalented.
Hell, my own mother had to teach me how to read people’s facial expressions and emotions. I don’t think that’s normal.
I honestly don’t think that somebody is going to save me before it’s too late and I’m permanently damaged.
I have dealt with that, made my peace with it. But I will push her to achieve the best, to live till old age. It might kill me, or I might die before I can, but as long as I am able I will strive to keep her head above the water threatening to swallow her.
Because I believe in Rosemary.