Just friends. Nothing more.
Than the kind of friends who take friendly contact to new levels.
New levels of secrets cramped in closets. In the dark.
The kind of friends who only see each other at night, night clothes not included.
Never as much as the type of friends who chill at a park in the afternoon.
Afternoon delights after school seem so almost innocent in their erotic ignorance.
Almost a game, getting wet was just a bonus.
Secret friends built for one on one time.
Call each other "friends", forcing conversation most times.
Topic always taking a turn for the teasing things "just friends' shouldn't talk about.
Bed-battle buddies, the best kind of friends.
Nothing more than forehead kissing, finger-lacing friends .
Stroke-snuggling fully-clothed, comfortable just holding each other friends.
"Just friends". Nothing more.
The jealousy is just because we care in the friendliest of ways.
Care with the lips, the teeth and the tips of our tongues.
Telling ghost stories atop the fires between us upon each other's aching flesh.
After all, what are friends for if not to bring joy to one another?
It just so happens that we're most jubilant juxtaposed to one another
in positions sure to land us in prison if performed in public.
"Just friends". Nothing more.
Than just what the other is aching for at these few opportune moments.
"Just friends". Nothing more.
Nothing less than this leisurely thing that always was and will be what it is ,
until it isn't what's working for us at the moment.
Friends expendable.