A friend is one who knows you and loves you just the same.

tonight at dinner, I had my second of what I am starting to fear may be a string of goodbye dinners. yes, i’m moving. Yes i’m excited. Yes, I’m exhausted.

how can I express that me facing my fears and taking on this new adventure, plants solidly in front of me another fear: the loss of those I love and hold near and dear.

oh yes we all have friends, but no one has friends like mine. because i am one of those superior thinking persons - believing my love is like no other, and thus so are my relationships.

I’ve always said I fell in love with the friends I consider to be my best. And granted yes, I’ve fallen out of love with a few along the years. But at this moment, when I am on the cusp of a new adventure, a studied practice of risk… I feel only this slight tugging in my chest and a dampness on my cheeks.

Don’t cry I tell my beloveds, this is not goodbye, we are not leaving each other, only taking steps towards stories to be told over pretty dinners and vibrant wines. In dark corners on our cell phones, through paragraph texts, via long drawn out highlighted emails, and now the ever present gchat.

so no, I don’t have anything to be afraid of, these girls, the ones I fell in love with before they became women, and fall in love with again every time I see them, who in a Mariah Carey like way are always there when I call. well. I don’t have to be afraid. They’re mine and I am theirs. It’s not the kind of thing I am wont to lose.

The reason I am always so fond of the golden girls, is look at the opening lyrics:

thank you for being a friend
travel down the road and back again
Your heart is true, you’re a pal and a confidant

See we don’t always have to be near to be a pal and a confidant, and surely all these years we have traveled down a few roads and back again. So really all I have to say as my adventures begin is, Thank you for being a friend.

my love is building a building
around you, a frail slippery
house, a strong fragile house
(beginning at the singular beginning

of your smile)a skilful uncouth
prison, a precise clumsy
prison(building thatandthis into Thus,
Around the reckless magic of your mouth)

my love is building a magic, a discrete
tower of magic and(as i guess)

when Farmer Death(whom fairies hate)shall

crumble the mouth-flower fleet
He’ll not my tower,
laborious, casual

where the surrounded smile
hangs

breathless

—  ee cummings