I only wrote a single poem this week – a poem about friendship. I was musing about what makes a friend, and how friendships come to be, and it just kind of morphed into my go-to format: a sonnet. Funny, really, because I had a conversation about friendship just the day after. How it’s so hard to tell when it starts, and how it’s so hard to know when friendship begins and when it ends.
What point decides that you become my friend?
I think about the spectrum, grey and long
where strangers overflow at one lone end
and good companions opposite belong
yet know not where the shift of int’rest lies
and whether time or distance or mere looks
contribute to the shift that always tries
to captivate more souls into shared nooks
It seems so artificial in a way
that I should know you and that you’d see me
For I judge easy, though my every day
is struggling just to let each person be
Yet if who you are stretches to this end
it seems that you somehow become my friend