Best Friend

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I feel like we could talk nonstop for a hundred years and still have more to say.

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One time, on the cheeriest of Spring days, this dude accused us of having our own language when we spoke to each other. Some dude…some annoying dude tagging along on our beautiful walk around moss carpeted Irish woods in March.

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We probably do have our own language. It’s full of trouble making laughter and unconditional love.  I would write poetry, bad poetry, about my best friend and read it aloud to auditoriums full of rich white old men with PhD’s. I would do that for her. And it would be hilarious.

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