It was cold and the
snow was piled up in tall dirty heaps everywhere.
Only the road peeked through, cut out like a black snake, salted and oiled and waiting for users. We stood there in the night air and I was bone tired and sad as hell. Talking about the funeral and almost breaking, almost leaking. Nearly undone by circumstance.
You were there by twist of fate and we were smoking, exhaling puffy familiar clouds. And I could not make eye contact and you could not hug me, though both of us thought about it.
Because along with the idea of how comfortable it would be there was also this strange image of magnets. You know the kind, where they have stuck themselves together and nothing can ever get them separated again?
Instead we just talked about it later. I love you for being that kind of friend.