Dear Will, 

In thirteen years, when you call me up and tell me you’re getting married

I want you to sweep me off my feet and say It’s you that I want

to give the speech. You and I will tuxedo past and present, corsage highschool years,

and I’ll say Of course. I would love to be your best man.

I know I’m no best-friend-since-birth, no hockey teammate, or brother, but Will,

I am left landmine starving for combustion to fill the void on your left

it may not be me-shaped, but I can fit it if I try.

Who needs a speech when I can wrap memories around your ring finger?

Every rollerblade scar, chess game, every secret you kept

I don’t need to raise a glass, just a moment:

sprawled on your bedroom floor talking about girls for the first time

felt right. Transplanted, I grew with you. Will, don’t you remember our roots?

So let me be twenty-eight with you

on the last night before you become anyone’s husband.

We’ll get swallowed up by fraternity, coughed up onto dive bar floors, 

you’ll take up to the rooftop to get some air 

slap me on the back and say

                                          Look at us.

                                                            Look how far we’ve come.

And maybe then I’ll finally forget how

I am always mistaken as your sister.