The Illustrious Friend

I am your friend.

When you think of me, you think of my obnoxious laugh, my crass language, my energy. 

I am not your lover

You don't think of my softness, my sensitivity, my servant spirit. 

You think of me as your friend.

A placeholder, an emontional crutch,

until someone better, who you would also like to touch, comes along. 

I wonder if being happy with being the friend cuts me off. 

I wonder if it liberates me of hurt.

But I don't think that it does either. 

I don't know what it does forever.

Only now, it hurts. 

Author's Note

Let me know what you think! Thanks for reading.