You are magnificent.
I don't tell you that enough.
I love you.
I tell you that all the time but
not how I mean it.
I mean,
I'm comfortable with you.
Comfortable enough to have long,
late night phone calls,
where I ramble about my feelings,
and you ramble about yours,
for hours until we're cut off by a beep.
You call me again on your mother's phone,
that you swiped from beneath her pillow as she slept,
just to tell me that you
have no credit left
to talk,
but we'll be alright.
I'm happy with you,
Childish and reckless,
Trespassing into old abandoned houses,
and finding thirty year old diaries,
and there's holes in the ground beneath our feet but,
I'll follow you anywhere.
And you know it.
My ankle is sprained for the next few weeks.
I tell everyone I twisted it on the ice that paves the streets.
It's autumm.
I should give you the label,
you know the one?
The one that you and I,
Have both been running from.
I'm too scared to say it,
and I can tell you are too.
That's okay.
I don't resent you for it.
I could never resent you
for anything.
-[you're my best friend but I'll never ever say it]