We've created a friendship that is both incredibly familiar and extremely toxic.
You’re telling me that you’ve seen me naked, but I won’t be able to cry at your funeral?
Our check-ins have become less frequent, and I worry that you’ll soon forget me. I heard that every time you think of someone, they’re thinking of you, too. Did you think of me Friday evening? I was watching the sunset while listening to "Let the Light In" by Lana Del Rey, reminiscing about the times I snuck a kiss at your back door.
I enjoy our friendship; there’s a sense of relief in being freed from the sexual chain we created. There’s a different kind of vulnerability you experienced with me.
The cigarettes we smoked could tell the story of two people who were never meant to be anything more than great lovers and close friends in secret. We find each other’s eyes in a room full of people who have no clue about the closeness we’ve shared. Then we turn away and pretend that neither of us had a flashback of the countless ways we pleased each other.
Are you thinking of me now as I write this?
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