Our friendship was genuine.
It took years of monotony;
consistency.
It wouldn’t have been a safe space,
if there wasn’t that much history.
Proof that he was safe.
He was never going to hurt me.
Always a brother. A dependable, platonic
friend.
Never romantic. Never an attempt.
“He’s too… boring?”
“Boring is good. Boring is stable.”
“Yeah, but… is that love? When
there’s no passion. Isn’t that
friendship?”
Maybe, in a past life, in some
other cultures. We were an
arranged marriage. That was
easy.
