The lawn is cool under my fingers,

printing pictures on to my palms

and running loose under my nails.

We three are sat there,

the exact deliberate point of the center of the grass.

It is I, a friend, and another.

There is a pad of textured papers lying on the grass,

opened, and full of colours spilling from the pages.

The friend runs her fingers across the leaking colours,

and admires their beauty.

I, too, sigh with admiration.

The other blushes, silent,

thanking us with a smile colouring her face happy.

She then compliments the friend,

wistfully touching the waist-length hair and the vintage clothes which are not hers.

"You look just like a Tumblr girl," she sighs,

as if her achievement in life was to become a faceless Internet person.

The friend giggles, lips upwards, and pushes the other, laughing out,

"You say that every day, you know."

And I look at the other friend,

look at her pulled-down sleeves and tugged-at jeans.

And I could never, ever compliment her the way she would want me to;

if I complimented her, I would say,

"Your hair is soft and autumn and your smile is worth a thousand springs.

Winter and summer pale in comparison."

Or, "Every night, these stars turn blue when they see a glimpse of you,

sleeping soundly in your bed."

But she does not think how I do.

(Or she would know how beautiful she was.)

So, instead of what I want to say, I tell her,

"You really do look like a Tumblr girl, you know."

The other laughs, eyes lined with makeup she doesn't need.

"No, I don't! She does, look at her, she's so pretty!"

The friend shakes her head, as do I.

"You do look like one," the friend insists.

"Your hair, your eyes, the way you are..."

The other denies it, though, eyes crinkling, and I do not understand why she doesn't get it -

doesn't get how beautiful she is. (I will try again tomorrow.)