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Everyone knows the love of friendship. |
I do not speak of the love That star-crossed lovers shared In Shakespeare’s famous play, But rather I tell of the love Between my friends and I. It is the kind of love that sends us running through the moonlight, And climbing forbidden rooftops, And feeling alive Even when we’re close to the end. It’s the kind of connection that lets me know what they’re thinking Even when I can’t see them. It’s the type of bond that lets us sit in silence Or cry Or dance Or laugh Or say Exactly what we mean. The friends that ride four on a tandem bike and nearly die trying, The same that picnic on neighbor’s lawns Or write messages from mars, dressed as Venus. The friends with whom I’ve made stupid mistakes, And cried with And cooked with And almost destroyed kitchens with. We have sold flowers together, We have swum in algae-infested ponds And shared the scandals of our souls. We have gone to school together (or not), We have bungee-jumped, And we have spent more time together than with any of our Romeos. These friends have seen me at my worse And at my best And are the ones with whom I’ve shared journals and secrets and goals and fears and first experiences. The sister who has known me thirteen years, The one who’s only known me two, And all the many ones in between: They are me, complete. I do not speak of the love That remote star-crossed lovers shared In Shakespeare’s famous play, But rather I tell of the love Between my friends and I, And your friends and you: This love we have all experienced. |