Peanut Butter on Oreos
Dear Sam,
Last night I gave my speech wearing a mask.
The world listened to the story of the mysterious boy who moved in across the street that August.
He knocked on the door of our small white house with a wrap-around porch and a picket fence and
asked if he could go jump on our trampoline.
We touched the sky while Mom made us ham and cheese sandwiches,
which were the first of many.
I told them about how this boy would never admit that I was better than him at baseball,
about how he introduced peanut butter on Oreos to me,
about be my date to the dance because I have no idea who else to ask,
about high school graduation horror story.
But what I didn’t tell them was how
he’s the same boy who gave me enough courage to do a backflip
on that trampoline
and how peanut butter and Oreos are only palatable
together
and how I only ever wanted to go with him to those dances
in the first place.
Sam, one-thousand lifetimes I’ve dreamed of standing beside you today,
but not to your right.
I revert my eyes to your shatterproof, glassy gaze trapped on the stranger in white,
gliding down the aisle of the church
that we grew up in
and wonder if she knows how we always crossed our left fingers during confession
and snatched two pieces of bread
instead of one.
Be thirteen with me again,
talking to the moon and Orion from our trampoline at midnight,
wondering where we will be if not together in ten years time.
Be twenty-three with me
once more
college is over and we’re in Paris,
waltzing and laughing underneath the glistening tower.
What’s louder...
the harp’s melody across the Champ-de-Mars or our hearts reverberating in sync?
Dance with me for a moment longer
let the spotlight linger on us as we belt our favorite lyrics of Bon Jovi
in that karaoke club in Barcelona.
Let’s catch one last wave,
before the sun sets
because for us it will never rise again.
Yes, Sam, I would love to be your best man,
even if it means I’ll never be your best girl.
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