he and her. look at that.

I see the way he looks at her.

And if his sight could stretch 700 miles,

I know he'd still have that derpy look on his face.

But when he closes his eyes, he can see her.

He sees her laying on her back, 

strumming chords,

singing hallelujah.

He sees her.

She sees him walking foreign hallways,

with perfect strangers,

head down,

thinking of her. 

She sees him.

And boy, when he talks about her

it's like she hand-stitched the galaxy,

or at least illustrated theirs.

He marvels at her eyes when she's upset

and drowns in them when she sings,

because paying attention to anything but her

when they're side-by-side

would be nothing short of a miracle.

He's got a past and she's out of his league,

but they've been friends since 4th grade.

Best friends since 6th.

And said goodbye in 9th.

But they knew it was more of a see-you-soon,

call-me-when-you-land-in-Utah, type of deal.

They're not even together, but he'll

buy the first ticket to wherever she is--

All she has to do is say the words.

She's the first 12 lines in 

every journal entry and 

he's her back scratch in church

and chicken noodle soup on a sick day.

I don't know if they've ever kissed,

but their words have touched enough to

mean something,

and their hands have held 

long enough to feel it too.

And who said love means kissing?

And to think this could be me and you.

xx

Sonny Jean