That title makes
you think
that I am a
delusional misfit who
speaks to shadows and holds hands with empty air,
where she finds
something.

You're right;
and you're arrogant,
because you read further to find
that you are not more
nor less of me.
My friends are no
more nor less of yours.

According to the nothing
we both know,
we have friends,
friends that know the
same as we know
about being a friend.

Friends who make us feel as if we are out of dark when we
really aren't.
Friends who tell us that we're skinny when we
must grow thinner
Friends who entertain themselves to entertain us,
their entertainment.
Friends who listen to what
we don't want them to hear.
Friends who cry on our shoulders
to make us cry with them.
Friends who let us cry on their shoulders
to earn themselves a pity party.

The fact that your friends are
beating and breathing
is why they are friends to you,
because I see no difference between them and
a comedy show as background noise
or a flashlight with a narrow head
or the mirror at the doctor's office
and my reflection in a pond
or the machine behind the emergency-call phone that only hears the worst of the worst
or the scary waterpark ride that my tears keep running.
or a heart's bursted arteries
that make it a heart no longer.

But then there are those friends
who separate you and I.
The ones whose heartbeats vibrate yours
and are seen
as you resonate with the joy
of your own existence.
The ones whose breath is pure
as the mind
that controls it;
the reason why
flowers bloom in the spring.

Find a fresh heart, laid on the street, and have it find you.
The chances are 1 in 1 billion.

Find a fresh mind, blowing in the wind, and make it blow towards you.
The chances are just as few.

Find them both, and you've found a rare species,
one of those friends.
and the chances
are 1 in the
universe:
yourself.

But it is there,
and I have found myself
     and you will find yours, too.