You call her trouble, a soft rebellion,
a laugh caught like a kite\'s tail.
Her grin, the color of backyard swings,
pulls you toward every reckless moment.
Rascal fits like a glove too loose,
fingers wiggling with space to breathe.
It skips off your tongue like a stone,
landing in her chest with no thud.
These aren\'t battles you fight to win,
they\'re the secret handshake of trust.
She nudges your ribs with a crooked smile,
both of you tumble into the joke.
There is history baked into each syllable,
the afternoons spent naming clouds,
the scraped knees that didn\'t sting long.
It\'s the language of a lifetime shared.
To clepe, to name, to tease kindly,
fingers brushing the pulse of friendship.
She wears it like her favorite jacket,
pockets deep enough to hold you.