Still When I was 16, I thought I was being naive I thought staying up talking about your favorite color was a silly thing kids do. I vaguely remember you didn't tell me the color, you described a river in Alaska (with the most grand, uplifting, artless art that only teenagers seem capable of) I was sure we were naive and I refused to enjoy it I knew we'd have better diction and more consequential subjects to discuss when we were older (and I was right) And you said we'd look back and find it all embarrassing (and you were right) And it was cringe worthy, until we got old enough that it wasn't anymore And thirteen years on (dear God)-- you're still my standard for conversation The different ways I've loved you made/make me better. You made me stubborn in a way that saved me from so much hideousness, so many times. This is a hard year to wrap up, even with you It's making me think of all the other years and how far away I am from playing bullshit and poker in the hallway I feel hopeless not knowing where to start or how to explain I'm ashamed of telling you about the abortion-- because you're the only person I know who wouldn't have a political opinion poke through And because your kind little jokes make me cry |