The mirror showed a face unclear To one who heard the words so near. Fourteen he stood, a towering height, With sunlit brown in hair and sight. Sixteen she moved, a softer frame, With hair the shade of autumn flame. Greyish blue her gaze did keep, Where many compliments would sleep. "You are so pretty," people said, A constant echo in their head. She did not see the shape they praised, Her own reflection left amazed. He towered over, strong and tall, Observing beauty meant for all. His own brown eyes held steady fire, Reflecting back her shy desire. He’d lean in close, a careless grace, And whisper near her thoughtful face. "You really are so very bright," He’d murmur softly in the light. A little laugh, a nervous twitch, As he would find the perfect pitch. He’d tease a bit, a playful dart, A gentle probing of the heart. She felt a warmth begin to bloom, Dispelling shadows in the room. The slight edge to his voice would tell A story that she knew so well. She’d watch his shadow stretch and grow, And wonder where their path would go. "So tell me then," she asked one day, Her voice a little bit astray. "Where do we stand within this space? Beyond just friendship in this place?" The air grew thick, the moment froze, The budding hope began to close. He shifted back, the space increased, The easy comfort quickly ceased. "We’re just good friends," the tall boy claimed, His easy manner quickly tamed. The easy smile he used to wear, Was suddenly beyond repair. A simple phrase, a cutting knife, That changed the landscape of her life. The pretty words she could not own, Now felt like seeds that had not sown. The closeness vanished like a mist, A moment that could not be kissed. The older by a single year, Felt all the weight of sudden fear. The height he held no comfort brought, For what she hoped had come to naught. She looked away, the grey-blue dimmed, A fragile hope completely trimmed. And in that space where fondness grew, A quiet, aching hurt broke through.
The mirror shows a face unclear, Fourteen springs have passed him by, He sees the shadow drawing near, Beneath a muted, cloudy sky. A sixteen year old stands nearby, With hair the color of the earth, And eyes that hold a doubtful sigh, A gentle gray with hints of worth. They call them pretty every day, The word a weight they cannot hold, It flies from lips in careless way, A story often to be told. But when the taller shadow speaks, His height a tower brown and vast, With eyes like autumn's fading streaks, The doubt within begins to fast. Six feet and five he stretches tall, A height that seems beyond compare, He watches as the others fall, To compliments he freely shares. "You are so pretty," he will say, A soft low rumble in his chest, He leans in close at close of day, Putting their fragile heart to test. A flirtation sweet and light, A dance of glances and of ease, He chases shadows in the night, And brings the other to their knees. A brush of lips, a sudden grace, A moment stolen, quick and deep, He finds his comfort in that space, While secrets that they harbor sleep. Then questions rise, a fragile plea, "Where do we stand, what is this thing?" The answer sets the spirit free, But only sadness can it bring. "We are just friends," the words descend, Like stones dropped in a silent pool, The easy pretense has to end, He breaks the unwritten, sacred rule. And every kiss becomes a sting, A memory sharp that will not fade, The love they have begins to cling, A silent, agonizing parade. The pretty face they cannot see, Is seen by him in glowing light, A painful, sweet reality, That turns their future dark as night. To love him is to court the pain, To watch him smile and turn away, To wait beneath the pouring rain, For what he will not ever say. The greyish blue behind the brow, Now floods with moisture, held in check, They long to break the silence now, And save their heart from total wreck. He is just a younger by a year, A small division in the time, But in his shadow, crystal clear, They know they cannot reach the prime. Each flirtatious glance he sends, A promise whispered on the breeze, Then friendship is the line he tends, And brings the other to their unease. The hurt is real, a steady ache, A constant thrum beneath the skin, For every chance he lets them take, He builds the wall and locks them in.
