Friends.

What’s left to say about friends

that hasn’t already been said best

by Derrida, Lacan, Montaigne, or Weil.

Those steadfast companions

who dot the topography of my life

in scattered, stochastic patterns,

as though they were placed

by the unguided drunken hand

of some universal cartographer

who, it seems, must have some sort of plan.

Whose raucous laughter,

over one too many bottles of burgundy,

caresses the soul more tenderly

than the hands of any lover

that has ever graced me.

When I am unkind to myself

In that characteristic way

of a self-sculptor forgetting

the fragility of heart’s own marble,

their kindness and generosity,

always effusive,

is a balm for my soul:

soothing.

Like aloe on a burn.