Next time I see you
I plan to be brave
and risk the bumpiness
of interesting conversation.
You’ve known me for so long
you think of me like
your knees:
same but older.
But I am not a part of you;
I am not even the girl
from your memories.
I am way
over here now.
And I am guilty too.
I hold the old story of you
like an egg,
afraid to break
the sameness
and scavenge your new life
with wonder.
Next time I see you
I want to see
you.
I want an earthquake of emotion
to shatter our dusty past
and in the cracks beneath us
let my curiosity about you
bloom a hundred hungry questions
like dandelions:
fresh, bright and alive.