oil and water.

you grew too fast.
you speak too loudly.
you judge too often.
you anger too easily.
your rubik's cube is still at my house,
along with your summer and your
character.

i know that pushing me off the ellipticle meant
"you're the only best friend i've ever had."
and buying me a princess cake meant
"don't settle for anyone who won't treat you like this."
and spitting your gum out on my cheek meant
"i like the way you don't make me grow up."
and how you didn't mind spending your birthday at chuckecheese
and how you let me yell at you even if you weren't wrong
and how you walked away when your condescending tone was just too much
and did not fault me for not coming after you
and did not fault me for not calling you again
and did not expect me to ever love you
or ever miss you.

and i like how you trip me in the hall or tell me how your mother's doing,
and how our only non-awkward conversations are about clothing
and the occasional bad film that we both caught at four am the previous night.

i'm not up to the challenge of a friendship like yours,
but i'm keeping the summer
and i'm keeping the rubiks cube
and i'm keeping the sound of a laugh when the person you trust most
is the person who just tripped you.