And my friends are delicate even with steel breast plates and glass eyes that dazzle on nights where the moon comes out to join us.

And my friends wear crowns to show their worth but others forget that it tears into their skin making them bleed from beaten thoughts and overactive brains.

And my friends don’t wear their hearts on their sleeves. Their hearts are trapped in rib cages beating melancholy tunes into themselves when life is bleak and time grows long.

And my friends can love into death the beauty of hands and flowers- the world on their shoulders and the photographs in their skulls breed truth and hope in people’s good intent and adventure.

And my friends are a whole other universe strung with the same thread that can’t break because their soil is strong and their garden nourishes all.

And my friends are timeless, classic, radical souls that leave your house painting crooked and your eyes wide.

And my friends don’t know that. But now they do.