Our friendship is composed of eleven p.m. fears: “I can’t breathe,”

“I can’t remember something,” “I can’t sleep,” and quiet chuckling over the phone.
Our friendship is supported by, but not limited to, misplaced arms, bouncing legs,
squeezing fingers, and clenched eyes. When I am feeling sad, he will hug me.
I can tell by his frame that he was never built to be sturdy. He laughs with eyes closed.

It’s like if he doesn’t squint, he believes his joy will leave through them.
It seems to work for him so I try to do the same. I will smile and hold his hand.

I will say, “I love you,” with a smirk. He will respond with a laugh, his thumb over mine.
“I love you too,” he will say. And then he will forget— because he always does. 

It will destroy me. I have found that it always has.