#poetry about a friend

[poetryofanewpoet]

a new friend

new things to recommend

my heart is filling with happiness

our lunch was decorated with chattiness

someone who gives and takes

not looking for escapes

just enjoying being here

no longer need to disappear

she asks good questions

and takes my suggestions

no sort of tension

we’re both paying attention

trying new food

“delicious” we conclude

let’s hangout again soon

I had fun this afternoon

-s.m.

[avicecaro]

i think it’s important everyone knows about the little roman girl who died at only five years and seven months old, and her grave reads "dum vixi, lusi" or "while i lived, i played"

[shardofsun]

A friend convinced me to finally get past the tutorial stuff in FFXIV. Live Shard reaction to meeting Urianger

[non-conventionnel]

“A friend is someone who knows all about you and still loves you.” ― Elbert Hubbard

[firstfullmoon]

Sharon Olds, “Love Song, with Removed Cyst”

[corpsentry]

love poem (typical)

[candiedspit]

About a friend : ELEPHANT MAN NO 81

[oneweek]

richard siken / chainsaw man

[carebeardean]

🪻for when dying feels a lot like falling asleep, a lot like falling in love.

<3 fan playlist for from the airlock of your heart by @wordsinhaled , & stray by cutevamp

[inkskinned]

you know, you know. no gods, no masters, no kings on pedestals. everyone is fallible. death of the author. you know! you are balanced about your intake of media - you allow the wiggle room, the grace, the gratitude, the skepticism. nobody above criticism.

but still. a weird gut-punch feeling, something akin to betrayal. you read the article. surprise! an author you love is actually: a serial fucking predator.

well, shit. what now. no, you knew he was a person (all people are), but now you're wondering - what have i overlooked by accident? what messages have i internalized that are strange and cruel? and also, like, what the fuck?

his actions lay a thick glaze on top of everything. like each place is now ruined, opaque in a new way. but okay, fine, you've done this before. you knew better, right? you've been betrayed by many a cherished childhood author.

still, this stickiness. fuck. can you pick up that book again. will you read it to your children. you've recommended it to others - will you ever do that again? and of course, of course, no parasocial relationships. you were theoretically above this kind of sentiment. but the artist informs the art, right.

so it's not something as clear-cut as feeling he owed you, specifically (a stranger) better behavior - just that you kind of, in a distant and odd way... sort of trusted him to do better. it's not like a real trust or something speakable, just the faint hope that the product (good books) was a thin representation of the soul. now it feels like the product (good? books?) was a mask. in some small or insignificant way, your previous support of this person lent them power. your money and your time and your laughter.

and the thing is - you have this terrible, echoing sensation. how many times will this happen? over and over. you find out that the singer you love is actually a predator. you learn over drinks that your favorite high school english teacher is in jail for what he did to her. you listen to the news idly and suddenly discover that a woman you used to idolize has been abusing her kids for an actual eon.

what can you touch without the static melting off. you can't even really complain about it too much (you were supposed to know better, and besides, you don't want the same re-split "it's not your fault, love what you love" basic advice), but now it's here. somehow, it feels like - you let him into your life.

it's not that things need to be pure or an artist has to be like, endlessly perfect, mindful. demure. it's more just this terrible truth that has been replayed through your veins so often it feels criminally vain. power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely. did you want any one person to be worth that power?

it's just that he wrote books where he seemed to understand that. he seemed to know about hierarchies and unfair systems and bigotry and privilege. you thought they were books about what it means to struggle. you thought they were about having power and still using it for good rather than for control. he spooned you a narrative of being a good guy, a kind soul. you fucking bought what that fucking monster sold.

maybe that's why they were fantasies, after all.

[sweetsweetperil]

Am I replaceable,

The words that I have said?

Is this love not enough,

To make up this messy bed?

Do my lungs not hold

The capacity to shift and bend?

Is this why you leave without hesitation,

My friend

[tojisun]

from a textile art by heavensghost; a reply to this

(01, 02)

[marmarbinx]

being a little in love with ur friends is like. in my chest I’ve carved out a little bedroom full of books and plants, and the sheets are clean, and the walls are your favorite color, and it’s reserved for you to come and stay whenever you please and leave whenever you like knowing you can always come home, because that part of me belongs to you, it has always belonged to you, it will never belong to anyone else, I want you, I don’t want anything to change, I need to know that you’ll always be here, I don’t want to tie you down, I would go to the ends of the earth for you, I’m happy if you’re happy, I have known you forever, we were strangers a year ago, I can’t imagine life without you, I love you I love you I love you

[9fruit]

notes on the below by ada limón, published in “the carrying” (2018)

[millybrowm]

i’ve been processing the end of a close friendship recently. i’ve been feeling a lot of grief about it, especially because the end of it came around because they just stopped trying. it feels like they don’t care. we don’t have a lot of space in our culture to grieve the ends of friendships—romantic relationships are too highly prioritized—and that’s what i’m trying to do with this zine.

[notquitepoetrybutsomethingclose]

I love him platonically doesn't sound like enough.

I love him with late night texts and the promise of hugs and walking together to group plans and the offer of a spare room and early birthday presents and food check ins and shared pain and the kind of trust I've never given anyone else.

I don't love him with kisses and touch and desire but don't you dare think for one second that makes it any less real or powerful or important.