Split Spines

She’s normal;

she puts her hair in ponytails,

and sometimes she sleeps in.

She’s leather-bound,

(like her dad’s favorite book)

but the boy broke her,

in the best kind of way,

the kind where it’s now easier,

easier to open up the book and read it.

She’s in love;

but it’s not the kind where it’s two-sided,

so she’s only licking one side of a spoon

covered in batter.

She’s in love with her best friend,

and he’s still leather-bound.

She envies;

she’s afraid of losing the boy who

watches her take off her make-up,

and she’s scared of losing the boy who

thinks so highly of her.

But she still bakes too-thick brownies with him,

the kind that can give someone stomachaches,

and she still listens to his favorite music,

and she tries not to watch the way

he watches her.

But slowly,

she starts to stretch his leather.

She no longer waits;

she holds time, like the way

they held hands on the roof

of a parking garage.

This was a big step.

He finally opens, she reads,

and he falls into her trust.

They grow closer,

they press bodies in hugs,

and tiny crow’s feet track her eyelids

when she laughs.

One piece of her is still the best friend,

but another part is now whole.