We are all the leftover misfits people had promised to make room for but never did. We are all the scribbles the doodler swore to make art out of someday, but were never given the chance; the ugly friend, the childhood scar housing reminiscent places, familiar feelings. And somehow amongst the muck and the **** people tend to label as having friends we pulled through with the title, 'there' for them. There. Funny, how one word can invoke such feelings of those who remember what that word actually means when you speak with intent on your tongue. There.

How we were 'there' for them; dealing with their choices, while they're looking for security in a storm, when there's rain flooding the highest peaks of our reticence.

We are there. Somehow we found each other. In this weird **** world we all managed to uniquely fit the structures of what we called love into the base of what we knew.  And our laughs broke the deepest silences, our voices chimed past the furthest room, and our judgments didn't exist because we were the best parts of the few.