for my friends

there were five of them, each with a slightly different piece of the world in their hands. the dreamer, the designer, the lover, the seer, and the thinker. they painted with similar strokes, but their brushes were unique: coarse, thin, rigid, thick, soft, but all perfect for their eventual masterpieces.

they would spend long languid days discussing their futures. and at night, when their lunar lady would illuminate the whites of their eyes and shiny teeth, they would reminisce about their pasts, occasionally shedding a single celestial tear.

not every night was spent this way, however. some nights, they took to the bubbly and warm cup, subsequently losing their nicely shaded lines and becoming lost in the blurry and spotted sky. and, when they were sick, they would grab their hair at the nape of their soft yet sinewy necks, and puke. and the remnants of a night lived in dionysus' honor would glisten on their chests like that of the most spectacular diamond-studded shield.

other nights, they would lay supine, thinking, sighing, and napping together, softly cooing like a group of owls. and in the morning, when the pale yellow sun found its way to the roots of their dark lashes, they would wake: warm, and with hair similar to the homes of their avian friends.

and with dirty hands full of life, they would eventually part: to dream, to design, to love, to think, and to see; but they would never forget those nights of glittery intoxication, of quiet and warm nests, and the soft days spent with dark coffee, conversation, and the toe curling joys of a sultry summer sunset. but most importantly, they would never forget each other.

they were strong and they were weak, but above all, they were friends.