My friend

 

We’re friends, and that’s how we both want it,

but I love her like a sister.

And when I feel like the blue of Picasso’s early phase,

I think of her.

And when I’m too dead to leave my bed,

I wish she would appear in my room.

Her laugh is like the warmth of clothes newly laundered

when you bury your face in them—

the comforting warmth, like her laugh.

She is thoughtful, too.

She calls me sometimes at night

just to talk, feeling lonely

or knowing I am alone too.

And I tell her I love her like a sister, and we laugh.

NOTES OF AN UNDERGROUND HUMANIST

© 2014-2019 by Chris Wright