There are no poems written for them,
No songs, no ballads
For those who made existence bearable for a moment
With just their presence
Nobody talks about the heartbreak of losing a friend
Lost to time or the vicissitudes of life
Nobody talks about the void they leave behind
And the emptiness that persists,
Because it's not as glamorous as romance
Not the whirlwind of emotions
Because it's so rare to find a reflection of yourself,
An oasis in the desert
Because its mythical to find a friend so real
And yet not worth writing about
We struggle and toil to find ourselves
Isn’t it in their memories that we would find our truest selves?
We frantically scout for mentors
Yet aren’t they the best teachers
Wasn’t their allure how they would better us?
We chronicle tales of our travails and triumphs
There are no stories written for them
Because nobody likes a story without an end
And friendship has none.
Lovers get over you
Friends never will . . .
