The other night
With old friends
Drinking
Talking and laughing
Remembering
Our shared lives.
We’ve known each other
For years
But meet only
Infrequently
These days.
Not often enough.
The first words
After months apart
Were a conversation
Barely interrupted
By the inconvenience
Of time.
We laughed
We drank
We talked
Did the family thing
Did the work thing
Did what we do.
We spoke of nothing
As usual
And everything
As usual
We said things
Only friends can say.
“Cut your own hair, mate?”
He hadn’t.
“You put weight on?
I haven’t.
A bit. Much.
Anyway…
You can say many things
To friends
Anything, really
Because they know
Your idiocies.
But you can’t say.
How much you love them.
Writing Me Up 
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