Poem: The Friend

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We met in the circle of stones, and neither of us

knew what to make of each other.

Me in a t-shirt, sweatpants, holding a crudely carved stick and some wooden beads.

We weren’t a familiar sight to each other.

She was a sort of alien being,

I could see it in the way she held herself. Different from me.

But her hands were just as mine were— searching, grasping, for something to hold onto. Something that

Made sense.

This circle of stones became something new.

This world of chaos something different. Something that made sense.

It was the world that connected us.

I asked her one day if she thought we would see each other again.

Of course not, she said. But that doesn’t mean I’m ever going to be stupid enough to leave.

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