Friendships as an adult

 They fade like breath on glass,

names you once carved into the bark of your days,

now softened, swallowed by time.

You meant to call.

You meant to write.

You meant—

but the weeks tightened into years,

and the silence grew a spine.

Once, friendship was a door left open,

no need to knock.

Now, it’s calendars, excuses,

a well-meaning let’s catch up

that never quite catches.

The past is a museum,

and you are the last visitor,

fingers hovering over glass cases,

tracing the shapes of people

who were once as close as skin.

You tell yourself it’s life—

the jobs, the miles, the weary weight of being grown.

But in the quiet, when the phone does not ring,

you wonder if they think of you, too—

if their ghosts visit, just the same.