Sweet like Rosewater

June 10, 2017

Props to you, man.

Just because, after all this time, and after I was sure I did something wrong, you’re still here. In another universe, I may as well have moved out already, moved somewhere no one but my closest of peers would think to search for me.

But now, there’s you.

You deal with my antics and stupid concerns. My insecurities and brutal honesty. You don’t exactly get me, or whatever type of madness I conjure up, but you empathize nevertheless.

It’s a rare thing for people to see me, hear my story, let me bend their ear about my internal, emotional warfare and uncertainty about my future and regrets of the past. And also, to simply listen while I reminisc on moments when I acted a fool with my other foolish, enabler friends in high school.

You try your best to relate to my problems because you know it makes me feel better, despite that we come from two completely different worlds and levels of humanity and flavors of life experience.

You laugh at my jokes—wholeheartedly, might I add—even though they’re awful and lack a real punchline. 

And even though I’m the type to gag at any sort of romantic gesture, you do it anyway (as I proceed to retch in response).

It’s almost overwhelming, your openness and transparency with me. I’m most assuredly not mentally and emotionally prepared for anything so pungent and palpable.

You’re pretty cool though. You get me, but not in a way that reflects me at all.

It’s great.

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