Skinny lanky arms of
A third grader;
her hair pulled back with a fuzzy
blue hair band and eyes bespectacled
by tinted glasses.
First impressions are the
worst.

She was the “weirdo,”
I was the “goody goody.”
Yet somehow we met in-between
From the lines we imprinted of
each other.
Now we are the inseparables;
bound together by the stickiness we called
friendship. And
By the notes passed in class.
By the tag played at break.
By the sleepovers every weekend.
By the crush we both had.
By words I was astounded to hear you use.
By our runs across the street.
By the biking down the hill.
By your dress coded shorts.
And by the secrets I told only you.
The cute kind of friends with
our innocent little minds --
Unaware of what was to come.

Now we are middle schoolers,
separated by those fake little lines called --
zoning.
With visits still frequent,
but changing quite evident,
it seems as if to me we are drifting.
Because not only is school separating us;
but ourselves are too.
It was the day you went blonde,
the day you used a push-up,
the day I noticed how perfectly skinny you are,
the day I could see right down your shirt,
the day you started wearing the eyeliner/mascara combo,
the day a boy said she’s hot,
the day you used that to your advantage,
the day you broke a heart to one-up me,
the day you were actually having insiders with another friend,
and the day it seemed that there might just be an awkward silence between us,
that I realized how different we really are.

Standing next to the pretty blonde girl,
I become diminished to my two year old converse
and lack of a cleavage spill.
Is it jealousy that I feel?
Or simply the disgust of what has become?

I miss the “weirdo”
that I knew for so long.
That harbored my secrets
and kept them prolonged.
I could care less for the blondie --
the poser -- she is heading towards.
For I just want that skinny lanky third grader
to be back again for all accord.