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Friend.

I could, I could, I could. If you promise to be my friend forever.




Being your friend feels like a Saturday morning.

It’s like running up the front porch steps, flinging the screen door open, and entering a house filled with the smell of fresh pancakes. We could sit at your antique kitchen table that your grandmother left for you and play Scrabble with our hands wrapped around our steaming coffee mugs. I could help paint your door frames white because nothing feels more like home than seeing you in your old flannels and ripped jean shorts. 

Of course, we’d have a mid-afternoon run to Home Depot because our project needed a little something more, but we wouldn’t come home without spending two dollars on small ice cream cones from McDonald’s. We could take the backroads home just to drive a little faster with the windows rolled down. My hair would blow in the wind and you’d glance over just to take a mental snapshot of the moment.

I could make homemade lemonade while you cut the grass. I could iron all of your shirts for work. I could push your glasses up when your hands are full. I could sway with you in the living room while a record spins on the table. I could curl up next to you on the couch and rest my head on your shoulder while we watch a movie from the 1940s. I could play all the right chords on the piano.

I could, I could, I could. If you promise to be my friend forever.

//

sawyer v stromwall

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