The Nature of Friendship
Her name is the sound of shooting stars,
and her home is the pause between crashing waves.
I see her in sunlight reflecting off the morning dew;
I hear her in clouds blowing east;
and I remember her in the silhouette of mountains.
She appeared suddenly when I was seven,
like a flower that bloomed overnight.
As if an endless store of gentle, pouring sand,
she filled my cracks that felt like chasms,
offering to build me up when
the rest of life was determined to inflict deeper wounds.
We didn’t have to speak,
just breathing together bolstered my confidence.
Like the glow from the visible side of the moon
and the unknown side that hides behind it,
like moss that flourishes
and the stone that is happy to be shielded by growth,
I stayed as close to her as possible.
Her presence wasn’t constant,
but I understood she was there when she could be.
Until the day when I knew
the memory of our friendship could support me
and she blew away like wishes on dandelion seeds.
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