Old Friendship.
There is no way to smooth out the creases that exist between us. Like the folds of an old letter that has been read over and over again, the bond between you and me is worn. Marred. I cannot approach you without pushing against this tension: like an accordion, I wail a coughing note of “I wish we could…” and “I miss…” as I press closer to you. At opposite ends we mimic each other, hoping to, one day, properly sing. Properly fold into one another, meet at the corners, perfectly.
