Back in Pre-K, you whispered
through grimy hands,
“I stole the last cookie.”
You grinned in triumph, until
fear got the better of you.
Then your forehead crinkled comically
and you squeaked,
“But don’t tell, okay?”
Even then, we linked pinkies
to seal the deal.
In sixth grade, we lay on your mattress,
sharing the silence without
feeling uncomfortable,
like only true friends can.
Then your voice,
humming with elation, broke the spell.
“I think I like Tyler.”
Then, as always, we pinky swore
not to tell.
Now, you look at me with sunken eyes
and say the very words
I’ve been expecting
but don’t want to hear.
“What do you think it’s like, letting go of life?”
You see my pained expression
and quickly frame it as a joke,
but you know I don’t believe you
and soon your secret will be out.
My motives are clear:
this is one secret I will not keep.
So, in desperation, you hold out your pinky,
just like old times.
But now, it just dangles
alone.
