It wasn’t just a simple hangout; it was a healing time

The conjunction we pose, which runs through our bloodline, questioned a relative’s connection.

My friendship with them has this mantra of not directly making an echo of our problems—just a sheer invitation of passing through our gates tells a lot of what one of us needs.

The horn of their cars, the clicking of their cameras, complaining coins, timeless rants, icky jokes, bratty shoes, and out-of-tune laughs tell the deepest story untold. They are my green people, who calm the beast of loneliness breathing in me.

It does feel good having around the actuality of what my toys made me when I was a kid. In my safety box, they showed up with a heart this time—a heart that could be on the same wavelength as the flow of my emotions, a mind that could be wise to mix maturity with my chastity, and a body that could move to warm my skin with comfort.

Yet we are flawed—a clash of differences still springs up while we sit on a couch, attracting strangers’ curiosity. But a vein tapped a part of me, reminding me how I can never bang them loose of me; they are permanent as long as the feeling of home never resides in an unknown quarter.

Because upon returning to my address, I feel like I’m carrying a totally repaired lantern in my chest—a rare hours with them made my worries walk away with the road signs I couldn’t spot anymore.