I was looking for a friend—
who stays awake inside my sleep,
who falls asleep inside my waking hours,
and then the letters dripping from their dreams
would tattoo themselves onto my chest.
They would come and take from my pocket
all the dead letters I've hoarded,
burn them into ash,
blow that ash into my windpipe and say—
"Now call yourself fire, call yourself rain,
call yourself anything you want,
I'll do the exact opposite,
because friendship means the right to go against you."
When we walk on the pavement at 3 a.m.,
stepping on broken bottles, blood spilling out,
they would take off their shoes and give them to me,
then walk barefoot and say—
"Blood is just a red road,
I can walk that road
to reach you."
They would store every sound of my cough
in separate little packets,
and one day when I'm no longer here,
they would sell them in the market—
"These sounds are precious, they were made by
a human being's lungs,
someone who never wanted to be understood,
only wanted to be heard."
One day they would take me to the hospital rooftop,
open every oxygen cylinder stored there and say—
"Why does breathing hurt so much?
Look, mixed in this air are so many people's last breaths,
let us also mix into it — that's what friendship is."
The last time I looked at them,
they would peel off the leather mask from their own face
and show me —
beneath this face, my own face was hiding all along,
I had gone out searching for a friend
and found myself every time,
but I couldn't recognize me
because my eyes still wore someone else's glasses.
They would say — "Do you understand now?
I never shared your grief over your father,
I was that grief myself.
I never took the polluted air from your lungs,
I was that air."
And then I would understand —
a friend is not someone else,
a friend is that person inside yourself
whom it took so many years to recognize,
and once recognized, I would erase
all advertisements, all searching,
because now I know —
I was never alone,
I was just blind.
Apr 17
Apr 17, 2026 at 2:04 PM UTC
I was looking for a friend—
who stays awake inside my sleep,
who falls asleep inside my waking hours,
and then the letters dripping from their dreams
would tattoo themselves onto my chest.
They would come and take from my pocket
all the dead letters I've hoarded,
burn them into ash,
blow that ash into my windpipe and say—
"Now call yourself fire, call yourself rain,
call yourself anything you want,
I'll do the exact opposite,
because friendship means the right to go against you."
When we walk on the pavement at 3 a.m.,
stepping on broken bottles, blood spilling out,
they would take off their shoes and give them to me,
then walk barefoot and say—
"Blood is just a red road,
I can walk that road
to reach you."
They would store every sound of my cough
in separate little packets,
and one day when I'm no longer here,
they would sell them in the market—
"These sounds are precious, they were made by
a human being's lungs,
someone who never wanted to be understood,
only wanted to be heard."
One day they would take me to the hospital rooftop,
open every oxygen cylinder stored there and say—
"Why does breathing hurt so much?
Look, mixed in this air are so many people's last breaths,
let us also mix into it — that's what friendship is."
The last time I looked at them,
they would peel off the leather mask from their own face
and show me —
beneath this face, my own face was hiding all along,
I had gone out searching for a friend
and found myself every time,
but I couldn't recognize me
because my eyes still wore someone else's glasses.
They would say — "Do you understand now?
I never shared your grief over your father,
I was that grief myself.
I never took the polluted air from your lungs,
I was that air."
And then I would understand —
a friend is not someone else,
a friend is that person inside yourself
whom it took so many years to recognize,
and once recognized, I would erase
all advertisements, all searching,
because now I know —
I was never alone,
I was just blind.
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