i have some really great friends
some of the greatest ones are faceless hearts expressed in bits and bytes
i reach out to them to hold their handsand wipe their tears
and sit with them on the end of the pier at sunset
with our jeans rolled to our knees
our faces dusty
our feet dangling in the water
the sounds of random early rising crickets chirping
and lazy water lapping on the beams
and sleepy birds singing their babies bird lullabies
and the silences stretching out in smoky spirals about our heads . . .
comfort is a bitter-sweet thing.
you offer it up with trepidation . . .
with an expectation that it will be slapped away
like a cheap, unwanted advance
by a creepy drunk guy in a polyester leisure suit
with a nasty cigar, whisky breath, and roving hands
in a dim bar with frayed edges
and torn vinyl seats at a scarred formica bar . . .
you take it with the guilt of accepting what you don't feel you deserve.
with the feeling that you are sliding some how as you tip the scales of friendship
that you are leaning too hard or expecting too much
and hating your self for needing that shoulder
and loving that it's there
but resenting that they probably don't understand how much it means to you
while fearing that they do . . .
some days it doesn't pay to check in with those who share your heart space.
you find them in a hard shell,
locked away and hurting,
and you want to pull them out and hug them
or slap them
or take their hand and drag them to the glittery wild world
to distract them from the ugly thoughts spinning in their brains . . .
oh, little violent one, please come out and play.