Addicted to friends

 

I admit, I am addicted;
insanely attached and habituated.

Am obsessed, I shamelessly confess,
needing them at every step of my life’s progress.

They are my friends or my soul they seem to be;
adding colours to my life, making it more meaningful and pretty.

My friends are my pillars of strength, my valour, my encouragement;
the ones I cry with, share my joys with and resentments.

Through heartaches and failures, we’ve grown together;
even though older, we’re not much wiser.

I have to tell them everything with as much drama as possible,
sharing every detail, recreating the scene and narrating with zeal.

Just telling them about the smallest of things,
brings in a new flavour, adds a zing.

We do not spend the same amount of time like before,
do not even see each other for years but pick up like life never took off.

Many a times, still today, a snatch of an old song, or the passing visual of a memory faint
Sometimes, I hear the sound of a gaggle of laughter and can almost touch them again.

Making each minute and every moment special,
their contribution to my life is irreplaceable.

They are the ones who have made me the person I am,
keeping faith in my abilities, telling me I can.

They show me the person I want to be,
they raise me to the person I can be.

These people are my definition of happiness;
they are the ones who own me.

They are my forever, my constant
my pride, my check, my confidence.

These people, who I call my friends,
complete me, complete my universe.