Sometimes I wonder how we became friends. It must have been that one night when we went for ice cream and you kept taking my spoon; as it disappeared from my hand and into your mouth, I could only smile (and steal six dollars from your pocket). After, we watched a movie and we were the only two people in the entire world; suddenly I understood how fragile you were. I felt peaceful around you, and I don't I've ever felt at peace with anything in my life until that night, and I don't think I've been at peace with myself since. I can say I miss you, but I wouldn't know what the truth would be: you are not the same as you were then. Neither, perhaps, am I.
Your text messages are so concise and always kind. You don't spend time with silly platitudes and a well placed bon-mot can always make me laugh. I feel like I've known you since I've known the sky. We speak the same language when we talk. You make my heart do triple axles, you write, and I show it forever, content in the knowledge that somewhere someone thinks of me as I think of them, and the lump in their throat is happy nostalgia.
You have a glass of wine as we sit outside with our feet hanging off the ledge. We sleep in the same bed and your elbows dig into my side. It keeps me awake but I stopped caring a long time ago. We laugh when people ask us if we're dating. I would never date you; I know what you're really like. And besides, we're better off as just friends.
(I've repeated this last sentence, as I sit watching your sleeping face, wondering if it's true. How well do I know my own heart, as well as yours, and what can I see in the worried lines of your forehead?)