Blue-point pen words etched on the bench at school,
the one where we sit every Wednesday afternoon.
A pretty act of vandalism, always chiseled in blue,
A courtesy to anyone who shares our seat.
It's these pretty acts of vandalism that draw us together --
we're a clashing quilt of colours, unsatisfactorily matched, seams visible,
peeling at the corners.
But in all our chaos, we're still here,
we're still friends.
Sometimes I walk you home, splattered elbow deep and sopping,
and suddenly we laugh, a silent testimony to an undying series of inside jokes and shared ironies.
What we have is special, is pretty.
You baked fudge from scratch in your kitchen once,
a rich array of light and dark chocolate, smothered with sprinkles,
or maybe shavings.
I forget.
You wrapped it in a box, and told me not to open it,
but you knew curiosity would overcome anything you said.
It's your singing that is the prettiest of all, I think.
It's not smooth or usual --
it's different, quiet, a rumbling deep from within your chest.
I like to think you'll make it out there, in the big wide world,
a shining star, glowing under the flourescent stage lights.
In fact, I know you will.
I like to quote you, you know, just to show that I listen.
Watching you breath life onto paper, etching small blue-point pen words,
it makes me realize what we have is pretty.
We're just two friends, good friends
best friends.
