Nous Sommes Juste des Amis

You’ve stopped your

weekly visits, the uncorking

of Baco Noir, the finger in the

cheek we heard as kids, suspecting 

 

I've breached a perimeter,

which I confuse with parameter,

their neither/nor abyss,

 

claim you want to preserve our

friendship, as only the ice

can do; this affection of another

kind we cannot christen, our sibling-like

rapport, this anything-but-fall-in-love—

 

which permits a single captive to

abscond—cold-hearted prefect,

perfect in its judgement, opting for the

philia instead;

 

the other silently smitten,

burning when our

touch is accidental.

©2026 Andreas Gripp

photograph: Walter Bellamy