I don’t count my friends in numbers

I count them in echoes—

The ones who laugh when I laugh,

Who clap when I only whisper dreams,

Who don’t ask why when I say

“What if we built a bookstore on the moon?”

They say, “Yes, and let’s paint it warm grey.”

They are the soft landings when the world is too hard,

The loud “do it!”, when I doubt myself,

The co-creators of chaos,

The ones who egg me on

When I say something that makes no sense

But feels just right.

I come to them with broken wings—

They don’t fix me.

They walk beside me,

Slow, steady, joking about everything

And nothing.

We order coffee

Like it’s a ritual,

Not for the caffeine—

But for the pause, the gossip, the grin.

They shed tears with me

And hold my arms when i climb the stairs.

And when I say

“I’ve got a wild idea,”

They don’t blink—

They just ask what color it should be.

May 2025

Image: AI generated