A Confession to a Dear Friend
Although it’s been said many times, many ways
I love you is the only thing I can think of to say
It’s an overused, undermeant phrase, and it doesn’t have the weight
I would like in the modern world, but like how I feel
it is simple and easy and fast. It is sure and it is true.
Now wait, before you get scared and run off, before you leave me
here in this chair that I abandon the spot I’ve lain claim to for
when you’re at the desk beside it, so that you may whisper to me intermittently,
and so that I may dangle my legs off the side and contemplate poking your leg
with my big toe. Before you join others in thinking I’m getting too heavy,
let me clarify that this is not to say I’m in love with you. This is not to say
I fantasize about your lips on mine, or the way your nipples taste, or the feel
of you filling the empty spaces in me. This is to say, simply, that I love you,
I love the person you are, the dedication you show to the things you do,
your mannerisms and idiosyncrasies, the tiny tight curls you won’t grow out.
This is to say that I just want to be close to you. That I will always abandon
that which is mine for the simple joy of sitting quietly near you, as we lose ourselves
together in vastly different academic worlds. That, though no one ever says this
to an ordinary person, I admire you, and have so much respect for the man you strive to be.
That if ever I were to have a son, I would want him to grow up to be just like you,
and that that may explain part of why I am always so overly concerned. That the way
you call me to ask a question that could have been texted makes me smile. That your
habit of touching my leg or placing your hand on my back while we’re talking makes me feel
like I’m at home. That pressure I put on you to lighten up is really just me trying to make you realize
how absolutely wonderful I think you are. Simply that, for the rest of our lives, I am your friend.