time and again there is only
knowing that your friend
whom you cocooned into the flesh of your palms
against the traitress and against the wind,
against your kin and their seven shields of qualms,
against that pest otherwise known as fashion sense,
not least against your own monthly man-hunting feats,
was waiting and hoping to knife her way out
into the wind, the shield fashion, the sense hunting and
probably
seven other things you’ve only read about once.
and you know, now, there’s much forgetting ahead and
much time for
second readings yield bogus insight, and so
friendship is all there is.
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