I’ve wanted to write a poem for you since forever ago.

I go to write it and I can’t quite figure out how it would sound. Nothing seems appropriate and everything feels cliche. Sarah Koenig would know what to say.

Why has it never eventuated? Because the simple act of talking with you is poetry in itself.

Something to think about in those alone days when you’re not quite so sure.

Sometimes if I am lying awake at night, I drag my handbag next to me, unzip the secret pocket in the dark with my eyes closed and read out the letter you wrote me before I left:

I just want you to have all the things at your beck and call…because no words really feel enough, and there’s nothing I can put on paper to explain it all.

And everything feels possible again, incase I lost it for those small moments without the light on;

No more feeling poor/like servants at bourgeoise lunches, it’s dumplings and Lindauer from here on out my love!

And even though it is getting dark at 5pm and I have nothing clean to wear to work tomorrow and I forgot to bring a sports bra and a hair tie to the gym last week which made me feel like my life was a small mockumentary for an hour, the moments you make are forever:

We’ll eat fish and chips in a tent by a bay, we’ll get sand in our hair and we’ll see the stars that you can only see outside of the city.

Friendship is both fleeting and forever.