YOU LIKED TO PLAY MOON WITH ME, BUT I ALWAYS THOUGHT YOU WERE THE SUN — we were children then, barely ten, and you liked to gift me small great things: a stone smooth as a heartbeat, your warm sleeve in winter's sting, and that kind of smile that makes butterflies sing. i wanted to give you something in turn, but you ran ahead, bare feet quick on fern. and i followed, stumbling, yearning, tripping on roots, catching your laughter like it was a rope pulling me through the greens. / we built kingdoms out of fallen logs, crowned each other with birch leaves, swore oaths no one heard but the crows. and when dusk pressed gold through the branches' glow, you pointed upward, told me the stars were holes where the gods peeked through canopy's folds. i saw no need for the heavens above; you were the brightest thing, naturally. / we carved our names into cedar and bark, trusting the trees to remember our smirks longer than time itself. and still, sometimes, when the breeze tickles my ears, wild and free, i think the night still carries your boyhood voice, calling me deeper into the woods, recalling me of when we thought the world was only as wide as our joined hands. // this was originally sketched and written for the 1st day of hijack's week 2025 (prompt: childhood friends), but i'm super late! orz
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