She

She's different from me. She's patterned and timely. She's obligated. She obeys the rules, but only the rules that she justifies as worthy. I'm scattered, a mess, always pushing the clock, screw the rules, I'm cutting out early. We know each other's music but not each other's libraries. She's her own politics. I'm blindly devoted to the previous generation. She's obligation at the last minute. She's loyal, but not loudly so. I'm devoted and make no bones about it. She's on fire. When the mood suits her. Which is most of the time.

Everyone recognizes it, but no one bothers to really understand it. She knows; I know. What else matters in the equation? We didn't seek this but we'll take it. At times we feel rewarded by it. We are the remnants left from the tornadic paths of others. We said hello with a cautious eye. We bothered to pay attention. We were threatened. We hated. We loved. We dared. We reached. We trusted. We betrayed. We reached again. We forged through it. We got through it. We discovered. We danced. We have the scars to prove the path. We found a home in each other. Forget the road that led us there.

It's not what we asked for, and it's not how we asked for it, but it's what we got.

It is what it is.

She's who I call. Success or failure. She's the first one at my door. She can orchestrate a parade or fight the world off and present a single quiet shoulder. She's indefinable, a sexy mess of contradiction. A beauty you've never before seen the likes of. Try to get in, I dare you. It takes that long to get to know her. You have to cough up a lot of patience. And you'll have to prove yourself when she's not at all interested in doing the same. Stick around though, the journey is worth it.

She's ice and fire. She's anger and compassion. She's a preacher but she refuses to listen. She's a little girl who needs your love. She's young but she's an old soul. You better accept it because otherwise she'll leave you in the dust with your arms thrown upwards in the air wondering what just happened. She'll leave you doubting your last conversation. But she'll call you in the morning and say, I'm so sorry, I don't know what got into my head, I hate myself today.

At a time when you thought you better apologize or she'll never speak to you again.

It's strange when you realize that you have so much in common. It's strange when you realize that she can hurt you and sit detached, watching you bleed. Or you can hurt her and not find a word, and she won't bat an eye. But you know; she knows. It's stranger still when she turns her head to you, gives you the world in one quick look, and you realize you both know exactly what's going on in a night when it seems that no one else has a clue.

She's made of steel, she's made of cotton. You're of brick and flowers.

You know each other by now. You both respect the steel and bricks, and you both have compassion for the cotton and flowers.

You realize she's little and observing through the window, excited about the flurry around her. Excited but not trusting. You know she just wants to be calm, settled. You know she just wants to be home. But you also know there's two sides to this woman. She's more clever than most people you meet. She can't help herself. Sometimes she can be like hugging a cactus. But you know her and you call her your friend.

You know that at any given second she can throw your entire argument and all your emotions back in your face. But you also know that you're both a bit worn in your tenure together, so you just count your blessings and go on. And a tremendous flicker ignites between your connection. It's a flame that pushes you or comforts you or dares you to jump because it says you have a net. And with that net, you can fly because you'll be safe.

It's who the two of you have become. Sisters without the blood; friends because of the bleeding.