Some Friends

Some friends are shooting stars.
They burn up bright trying to get to where you are.
Some friends are comets, like dogs on long leaders
we pull back before they can wander too far off.

Boys will be asteroids and girls will birth worlds,
rolling flour clouds into balls of dough.
Some friends just can’t act right.
Hard against the earth like meteorites.
And some, cold and numb, far flung, no strings attached.
Defiant gas giants and terra-formed friendships
seem only to begin and have no end,
growing lonely in a post-sun din.

Relationship eclipse.
Blotted out by your closest star’s closest friends.

Tapping the shoulders of strangers with fingertips of shadow.
In perspective and in patience and in temperature and timing.
The molten iron masses we keep buried within.
Electromagnetic armor coolly worn so thin.
So that only a friend or two ever truly makes it in,
and always leave a crater wherever they land.

Many more get whipped like boomerangs and reach a certain age
to come crawling back tail between legs with gilded stories to tell.

But just a few friends are like shooting stars.
Burnt up trying to get through who you are.
So you would know exactly where they fell.
Making wishes while friendships fall apart.

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