The Romance of Friendship

I am obsessed with my friends. They don outfits which hug their bodies and I find only beauty there. It helps me find beauty in myself. We share mirrors, they paint their faces with hues of gold and tan and brown, so gently, almost a flirt with their features and a frame for the world to admire them. I am thankful for these moments, them peering deeply into their own eyes, a demonstration of self love, I am an observer to this meaningful practice, I feel almost unworthy to be there. To witness this connection.

I often feel separate from their femininity, the effortless softness and gentleness of their touch. Their words pricking gently at the ends of my mind like a kitten’s loving scratch. They urge me to look deeper, find mirrors in new places and feeling at new heights. 

The depths I have acquaintance with, but the heights I have been shown by the women in my life. 

Sitting in circles of different shapes, on the floor or a couch or a cushion, it doesn’t matter, there can be no discomfort in this web of our invention. Words, always words, from soft or sharp mouths, somehow always gentle, searching for something better for me, wanting the world to kneel down at my feet. The way I want the world to fold for them, into whatever shape they want it, whatever color or pleat.

And we dance, we dance recklessly with limbs outstretched, brushing each other with no expectation, no next step, only the moment of movement together. The promise that they’ll be there, should anything happen, forming a sea of wriggling bodies and beautiful defenses. Here, I am safe, and myself. I am myself around them, and they see me and into me and through me and beyond me and they still dance next to me. They still hold me when I fold and kiss me when I cry.

In this gentleness is a reserved power, a fist of merciful balance, a fruit tree overgrown with juicy abundance. Womanhood is abundance, bodily springtime and devotion. I am devoted to them.

I am obsessed with the intimacy of these friendships. The way their hands are always there to be held, their hair to be played with, their smiles to witness like an epiphany of humanly goodness. They are goodness and show me as such that if all else failed, if I had nothing left, surely I would have womanhood, woven from the fabric of their faces, words and love.