It’s like that itch that just can’t be scratched
The feeling of want
Building with each passing memory of other
It can never be completely consumed
Some deep dark internal part broods in silence
Wanting the parched lips to be moistened, not quenched
Wanting the hunger to be alleviated for a moment, but not sated
Wanting to exist in the “in between”:
That place between obsession and satisfaction
“Live in the moment,” he says
How does one do that when love was once upon a time
Yet intimacy remains?
They are the best of friends, but with something more
The love is there, but it’s not romantic love
The romance is there, but it’s purely platonic
They read poetry to each other by candle-light
But insist they are no longer in love
They share a passion for indie bands
He softly strums guitar into her ears
But they are only friends
Gone is the obsession, the wild abandon
The need to be everything and all consuming with each other
Time can quickly pass into days, perhaps a week with no contact
And yet they come back together easily, seamlessly
They have a secret language, full of code words
They have secret meanings that no one else understands
They hold sacred memories of each other
And know the most intimate details about each other
Details that only a lover would know
They are friends.
They are lovers.
They are not in love.
Welcome to the millennium.
Copyright Michelle Beckham-Corbin 2009
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