I was looking for a friend—
someone who could hear the fever inside my head,
who would place invisible bandages
on the joints of my broken knees, one by one.
Every morning, they would mix a spoonful of honey into my phlegm,
so I could forget—
my lungs are no longer livable,
just a nest of lice.
When the beggar child at the traffic light shatters glass on my window,
they would steal the last coin from my pocket
and tear their own pants to make a kite for that child.
They would take me to the museum, sit me beside a mummy, and say—
Look, this mummy was once someone's friend too,
now all that's left are bones and a faded towel.
One day, the two of us would steal an ambulance together,
wander through every haunted crossing of the city,
and in the headlight's glow, we would see—
our shadows have long been dead,
yet still holding hands.
When they fall asleep,
I count their breaths like rosary beads,
knowing—one extra breath and they will die,
one less, and I will.
So friendship means—
a small rope tied between two lungs,
so if one falls, the other pulls them up,
and then together they turn that rope into a guillotine
and cut away, all at once,
every false separation in this world.
Apr 17
Apr 17, 2026 at 2:02 PM UTC
I was looking for a friend—
someone who could hear the fever inside my head,
who would place invisible bandages
on the joints of my broken knees, one by one.
Every morning, they would mix a spoonful of honey into my phlegm,
so I could forget—
my lungs are no longer livable,
just a nest of lice.
When the beggar child at the traffic light shatters glass on my window,
they would steal the last coin from my pocket
and tear their own pants to make a kite for that child.
They would take me to the museum, sit me beside a mummy, and say—
Look, this mummy was once someone's friend too,
now all that's left are bones and a faded towel.
One day, the two of us would steal an ambulance together,
wander through every haunted crossing of the city,
and in the headlight's glow, we would see—
our shadows have long been dead,
yet still holding hands.
When they fall asleep,
I count their breaths like rosary beads,
knowing—one extra breath and they will die,
one less, and I will.
So friendship means—
a small rope tied between two lungs,
so if one falls, the other pulls them up,
and then together they turn that rope into a guillotine
and cut away, all at once,
every false separation in this world.
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