Once I had a friend,
All the rules, together, we’d bend.
She was calm and cheery.
I was dark and weary.
With each other we’d compete,
We’d lie, trick and cheat.
Once while at a wedding,
Between us, we sampled all the bedding.
Not a common thought we shared,
Just how the notches on our bedposts fared.
We giggled, laughed and talked.
But more ruthlessly, we mocked.
We would sell each other out,
no one ever had a doubt.
Yet, to each other we’d turn,
for every scratch, itch and burn.
We’d hurt each other with pride,
and smile through the ride.
We had a little black book,
for every dirty shot we took.
Our worlds were complete unknowns,
but I could draw a map to all her buried bones.
Now, as so often is the case,
it has been years since I have thought of her face.
The real ones too, not just the mask.
Now she only comes up when people back home ask,
“Where is your old friend, my dear?”
“She’s a hairstylist, I hear.”
Philia
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