by Krystal Dean
First Place: *The David Middleton Poetry Prize*
She’s been your friend since the first time
she turned around to ask for a pen
and you couldn’t decide
what color to give her first
red for her cheeks or green for her eyes
so you gave her the whole box
and later told your mother you lost it.
She’s your friend.
She was your friend in junior year
when you laid on the roof to watch the moon rise
but you didn’t tell her that the only stars you could see
were sprinkled beneath her eyes
over the valleys of her cheeks
and the crooked, crinkled lines
of her nose when she laughs.
She’s your friend.
And your Icarus heart
takes you too close to the stars, to the skies,
to the heat of her laughter
and your wax frame dies
melts down your feathers
and you aren’t even surprised
as you fall into the sea.
She’s your friend.
And she has him.
And you will always just have freckle-dotted skies.