truth or dare

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your basement, the glow of the television on my back,

the ditsy laughter of a slumber party,

the blanket beneath me like peach fuzz on my palms.

you suggest truth or dare first. of course it was you:

you with the firecracker voice,

the flair of an actress and the precision of a doctor,

sprawled out in front of me like new york city.

i never chose dare, and you never chose truth.

we both feared the same thing,

two ink-stained girls threaded with different fonts.

i should have recognized the flutter in my chests as butterflies,

they pounded against my ribcage when you looked at me,

your hazel eyes ringed with green, a pine circlet in a hazy sky.

you didn’t hesitate, but panic flared in my stomach,

caught me by surprise like the twilight of august.

“i’ve never been kissed,” i whispered.

the rest of us, drunk on joyous childhood and midnight secrets,

burst into raucous laughter, giggling into each others shoulders.

your smile was a lighthouse; you always seemed to light my way home,

“that’s okay,” you said, “this one doesn’t have to count.”

we crawled to the center of the circle,

our lips connecting like the missouri meeting the mississippi.

it would be years before you told me i was your first too,

cramped together in the dark, our names carved onto the wall.

our confluence was brief as the last time i saw you:

eight years later, graduation, just feet away from state avenue,

two girls draped in silver and navy like saints of old.

your lighthouse had long since signaled new sailors, 

and i had long since found new shores:

women with purpose rather than girls with dreams.

i get the feeling you’ll marry that boy,

your fingers intertwine like tributaries,

his lips meet yours, the wind lifts the cap from his head.

your laughter reaches my ears as you reach for it, 

but the wind has already moved on,

she’s reached my ears, spinning a finger around my curls,

and she wonders if our kiss counts for you too.