Too many words.
Too many thoughts and ideas and incomprehensible, half-formed fragments of thought.

All of them inside. Fighting with each other, fighting with me, fighting to get out.
All of them losing the battle.

All thoughts remain inside, unseen and unheard.
Hidden.

These thoughts are buried beneath a mountain of the superficial, to keep from sight what I don't want him to see.

I want to forget. I want to move on, be weightless and free. But the memories live on--in the red notebook, countless black notebooks, and inside of me--everywhere and all around.

He is laughing.
We are walking together, chatting idly on the way to class.

He is crying.
I am hugging him, hoping that the simple gesture would explain every word of comfort that I had rehearsed, every feeling I wanted to convey, and above all just show him that I just wanted to be that friend whose shoulder he could cry on, in whom he could confide in.

He is standing in a doorway looking for me.
I am looking at him, smiling as I take in all of him--the glasses, the socks that he refuses to fold down, his smile.

He doesn't separate from me.
We are together and yet apart, just as my half-formed thoughts and fragments of dreams, the ebb and flow of my stream of consciousness.

Together, yet apart. As we always are, as we always have been.
The best of friends and nothing more.