No Slave To Friendship
The agonizing over never being close to those who care
I was always pulled by love, beds, and bodies, to a seaport city here, a beach town somewhere, open to a stranger’s arms. Like every sailor, I’ve been tossed, rolled, bowed, and broken by the sea until I’ve become a product of all she demands. The sea is all I know for sure, having been rubbed, rolled, flung, flipped, caressed, and cajoled into believing I’m safe within my knowledge. I never was. Never will be.
Just as love brings no certainty, no surety of heaven, a love of the ocean will never shake her need for the opportunity to bash a romantic head against her rocks.
Some people say they are my friend, it’s not enough to keep me home, or even remain close by. People grow apart. A compass is a small thing to hold in the hand, but in truth, my life has sailed so far out past the tide, it’s now beyond my own far-reaching reach.
I’m content walking the sand, but only for so long.
I wrote letters to friends, I’ll come in three months, or maybe three years. I cannot sit around waiting for death. It’s not something I can be blamed for, my life doesn’t weigh enough at home, it drifts off and floats away.
Keep your hazelnut trees, your flocks, your old-fashioned poetry and tired old shops, stay caught up in all the old trappings.
I will not be a slave to friendship.
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