She was once the girl
who bent sunlight into stanzas,
who sat behind typewriter booths
and wrote poems for the forgotten parts of strangers,
for the ghosts hiding in ribcages,
for the ache that had no name—
and gave her love so freely, so wildly,
as if her heart had never known restraint.
She was once the girl
who moved folding chairs with me,
who swayed barefoot to her own spoken word,
who carved entire galaxies with her breath—
and I followed her voice into new worlds
I didn't know I still believed in.
She was once the girl
who reminded me of wonder,
who dusted off the cobwebs of my stillness,
and said, Come, let's go somewhere unknown.
She made sidewalk cracks feel like maps,
made streetlamps glow just for us,
and I let her lead me into adventure
as if I had nothing to lose.
She was once the girl who read every word of my horrible poetry,
Regardless of how long or raw it was.
That was nice.
She was once the girl
who I thought saw the stars in my eyes
long before she charted their constellations.
She was once the girl
who called my name through a flurry of fallen papers—
a mess of pages between us before we ever knew the chapters we'd write.
We met somewhere between the gravity of the ground
and the levity of surprise,
and I said her name back like I'd always known it.
From there we walked,
and words filled the space between footsteps—
life spilling out of us like overfilled teacups.
She was once the girl
who sat with me in the crowded quiet of Snakes and Lattes,
where we didn't need snakes and ladders
because conversation was our only ascent—
and we played games not for victory
but to glimpse each other's truths between the rules.
She was once the girl
whose chaos smelled like jasmine and deadlines,
whose laughter made room in the room,
whose sighs carried the weight of the world
but still made space for me to rest within them.
She was once the girl
whose head rested on my shoulder
and made me feel like I could shoulder every sorrow
and suddenly,
I was a marshmallow in the inferno,
melting with no fear of flame,
because for once, I was warm in a way that made sense.
She was once the girl
who made 3 a.m. feel like noon,
who gave her sleep away
just to stay awake with me in those hush-hours,
writing lullabies into the air
without a pen in sight.
She was once the girl
who turned my disdain into devotion—
who took my scorn for something sacred
and patiently placed petals over it,
until I could only see beauty
where before there was blindness.
She was once the girl
who made the kalimba sing like it knew my name,
who struck every tine like a nerve
and played truth through trembling metal.
She was once the girl
whose closed eyes opened something in me—
the girl whose stillness taught me movement,
whose trance became my turning point.
She was once the girl
that trees leaned toward—
not for sunlight,
but for her gravity.
She was once the girl
who took me to Kensington
and rewrote the familiar into something feral and free,
who handed me the map of a city I thought I knew
and said, Look again.
She was once the girl
who wandered with me for twenty-minute eternities,
who chose sidewalk over shortcuts,
whose sense of time was soft and surrendered
when my presence was her compass.
She was once the girl
who trusted the detour
more than the destination,
because she trusted me or wanted to spend time with me, who knows.
She was once the girl
who took me to Sonic Boom
and made my heart echo
with the hum of every vinyl she touched—
and I swear I've been spinning ever since.
She was once the girl—
and yet never just once.
Never just a moment.
Never just a memory.
She was a whole volume,
a symphony in syllables,
a forever inside a fleeting.
She was once the girl.
And every version of her still lives
in the soft-spoken echoes
of who I continue becoming
because of her.
She was once the girl
who sat across from me,
smiling with a spoonful of frozen yogurt—
knowing it would betray her body,
knowing it would burn her later—
but still she ate it with joy,
as if every moment of sweetness
was worth the price of pain.
She was once the girl
who stood behind me
when my knees shook on stage,
who whispered courage into my spine,
who gave me her steadiness
when I had none of my own—
and the sound of thousands became silence
because she made me feel safe.
She was once the girl
I admired before I ever loved her,
before our eyes locked like magnets
and our mouths became altars.
Before I knew what it meant
to hold a whole storm in my chest.
Before the thunder,
there was a quiet tempest.
Before the love,
there was awe.
To have loved her, even briefly,
even in fragments,
even with the knowing that it would end—
was better than never having felt
the world shift in my hands.
And as stupid as this may sound.
I wish—
I wish I could love her platonically.
I wish I could look at her
and not feel the ache of what can't be.
Because I love her too much—
too wholly, too painfully—
to bear seeing her
without being hers completely.
And she was once
everything.
She was once
everything.
She was once
everything.
And somehow,
she still is.
