Love Me Friendly

I have this recurring conversation
With myself as if I were talking to you
Who asked me to unravel my layered
Pain regarding friendships lost and few won.
It strikes me as pathetic, maybe even comical
That at such an age, I am still plagued by
The desire to be loved friendly.

Well, I sigh as my hand wipes the corner
Of my right eye, I have believed my title was
Friend when in fact it has been acquaintance.
There is a difference between the two, you know.
When you are a friend, the other person
Pulls you out of hibernation so you get fresh air
And not become so comfortable that you forget
To live; she does not toss aside your cares, even
When your correspondences lag.

Maybe this perception is what kept people
At such a distance, an unspoken expectation,
One that became too cumbersome to bare,
Oh, how I wanted to find others who dared
To show an inclination of respect and interest in
My personality, and when they did is it possible
I was not good enough for them?

At what age in life does one stop worrying about
Companionship in its variety of forms?
At what age does one cease protection from
Companionship's potential to do harm?
At what age will I stop returning to this
Conversation where I pick apart the layers
Of sorrowful regret that few truly love me friendly?

I ask myself...