I guess we’re good friends, you and I 
and yet . . .
there’s something in the way you toss your hair,
or walk like you’re enjoying every step,
that makes my heartbeat quicken just a bit.
And makes me read some nuance in your glance
or in your words.

After all, we’re just good friends.
and yet . . . 
what is it that I feel when you come in,
or when we talk or laugh or when we cry,
Or when we simply take a little time,
to do those small inconsequential things 
that good friends do?

It’s nice that we can be good friends.
because . . . 
we have a sensible relationship, 
unspoiled by all the problems lovers have.
We don’t feel jealousy or fear or need.
And we don’t have to talk about our love, 
‘cause we’re just friends.

We really are such good, good friends.
and yet . . .
Sometimes when I am all alone, I think
that all my earthly needs would be fulfilled 
if you reached out to me, and I to you,
sharing life, and love in all its depth,
not just as friends.


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