Daisy Solace

She, I, Us

I watch her fingers as she runs them through her hair. 

I long for her hand to wander as my mind does. 

To my waist, my hip, my side. 

To where I'm most vulnerable, most naked, most broken. 

Does she know? 

If she knew, could she understand? 

If she understood, could she reciprocate? 

The only answer I know for certain is the last. 

I know she sees me, 

But even at my most beautiful, she thinks "friend". 

On a bad day, perhaps "roommate". 

On a good day, perhaps "best friend". 

On the best of days, I loathe to consider that the word "sister" may pass through her mind. 

She is many things to me. 

A sister is not one of them. 

She does not have the visceral need I hold deep within me, 

to be near her, 

to hear the beat of her heart, my head pressed to her chest,

to hold her hand, 

to be loved by her, loved by her eternally. 

Loved so deeply that it's painful to be apart, painful to go a

moment without our bodies entangled, painful to not

understand each other's deepest thoughts. 

She sighs and places her hand on my cheek. She

asks me what I'm thinking about. 

I don't let the answer escape my lips. 

It lingers there, as it has for months. 

I have to physically restrain it. 

Nothing, I tell her. 

Life will continue as it always does with us. As

she likes it. 

As I don't.

Originally featured by Bottlecap Press