The one that got away

I like this boy, he doesn’t know, we’re just friends. I wrote this a few days ago

And somehow we have become friends, the ones who talk with meaning

We talk about our parents, how their culture dictated their choices, and how those choices impacted our lives

We are old enough for that to mean something, the statement “our lives”

Do we stick to the path already formed by the feet of our mothers, or do we assert the same dominance of our fathers whose iron rod was literal, who lead the path for his kinsmen to follow

Why do I feel that I have always known you whilst yearning to devour whatever else there is to know

I have never felt this way about anyone before, neither have you

But as we talk you reveal greater layers of you and perhaps I do not know you

You feel the same as me, but the feelings are not for me

Conversations turn to HER, and you do not know it but I feel ashamed

We talk as if nothing has changed, I even ask about HER sometimes

I can tell you feel comfortable around me, yet you do not know it but i have changed

Somehow we have become friends, I accept that this is how things shall remain

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