by S.M. Pruis
There is safety in the miles between the sight of your face and the memory
of those words:
I never wanted to be your friend, Sarah.
Rain still flecks grey these eyes recalling the storm cloud’s roil from your shoulders when you heard
I loved you
the wrong way,
that I loved you
without the volatile drenching
of Illinois’s thunderheads. That summer,
our friendship was swept away with paper boats
and maple leaves down a city drain, and ever since
I’ve marked our distance.
S.M. Pruis is a student and poet under rainy Seattle skies. She works as the Social Media Coordinator for Image Journal and as the Administrative Coordinator for KTF-the Prison Project, an arts therapy program. Links to her published work can be found on her website: www.pruispoetry.art