L.

Lady Carlotta, you have always been the glamorous one. Long-legged, long-lashed, you were made to linger on the finish. At sixteen, you were hell-bent for adventure, screaming at the sea and playing Morrison in your Mustang on wild trips to nowhere the wrong way down a one-way street (or was that me?). You invented that drink we downed on our Mystic Nights, and if it ever had alcohol in it we certainly didn't need it. I remember summers in your basement bedroom, playing cards in the woods with the sun splitting through the trees, confessing my secrets to your wide eyes, your understanding ears. I remember snowy nights, creeping out of hotel rooms with sleeping boys and passed-out girls, on our way to purer things. Cats at the Queen E; posing with fishing line at the fair; our mugshot profiles; dancing in the air. Always dancing. 

This is no grad write-up. We were sweet creatures then, still innocent but longing to lose that label. Now, we are grown women on opposite sides of the world and I so badly want you to come over and play. I want to read your palm and tell you about the curve of your heart line, how it points home no matter where in the world you are. I want to wave my magic wand, or have my wizards wave theirs, and grant you the great happiness you have been seeking all your life. You are fine and rare and worth more than all these words put together. In my heart, you are the great beauty of the universe and the friend I will never stop seeking.