Sometimes I sit with my oldest friend,
,the eldest friend.
She comforts me in the coldest ways
I feel like I’ve always had conversations with her, sometimes even begging for her presence.
A bitter sweet release.
Is it really that selfish? A stupid question
Yet there she remains, eyes sunken and taunt hands
Ready to grab your heap of skin
An extremely cold embrace.
Brisk Exhales.
It’s interesting that I still view her as a friend, a space to talk freely and wish
we shouldn’t be scared if it’s already woven into us.
A pre decided relative we so desperately try to ignore,
But what if I just faced her ?
Direct address with the divine herself,
She doesn’t have colour, nor she she have any remarkable features
As if you’ve always known her but never had the chance to really, truly take her in until she chooses to let you,
The definitive.
I do wonder when I’ll properly meet her,
More like how.
A morbid fixation on the intimate, ultimate exhalation that so many write as if they’ve already shook her hand.
I think we’ve touched fingertips at times,
Playful skims.
That’s all it is really, just play.
We dance and dance until we fall down, something we’ve all heard since children - did you get it then?
Still, I yearn to one day sit with my friend.
Ask about her years and where she’s travelled, who else has she embraced, who will she reunite me with.
I’ve got to respect her.
