He is seventeen,
Two years older than me,
And we've been friends forever.
Sitting on the grass and looking at the clouds,
He turns to me and frowns;
"When we grow up, our heart dies".
I joke about how this was from my favorite movie,
But he brushes it off and adds:
"And then we're all gonna die"
"Does that mean that everything matters,
Or that nothing matters?"
Sometimes I'd look at him and smile,
Sometimes he'd stroke my hand and sigh.
They won't write about us,
No one will,
Because we are not in love,
Because poems ought to be about lovers,
Not best friends meeting halfway,
Not lonely souls bond with each other,
Not two kids loving this world endlessly,
Both looking in the same direction,
But not at each other.
He doesn't kiss me,
But sometimes when we walk together,
And I don't feel good,
And I need something to hold onto,
His hand is always what I'd reach for.
"We are all going to fucking die".
He looks at me and adds:
"I want to die by your side, right here, by your side. "
YOU ARE READING
My loved ones; a journey.
Poésie“Perhaps one did not want to be loved, as much as to be understood” George Orwell.
