Friends come and go—
but when they are “come,” you never suspect the “go.”
So . . . how many secrets, shared in trust, walk out the door with that one—that one with whom I had felt such kindred kindness.
It might make me more guarded—you would think—to shelter
closer the bleeding things that make me defenseless, to not so easily show my tender underbelly,
my transparent self,
to the next maybe-transient friend. But
the trick is I keep wanting the forever kind of friend, and I keep investing the bloody bits of my private self because
hope has a hard time dying to the thought that perhaps,
there exists the friend-kind that will never walk away, carrying my treasures and trash with them.
This longing for the lasting: This is, I suppose, a longing for the eternal, and
I will ever be disappointed that it is not…
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