My title is the "best" friend.

He seeks answers, advice, attention from me

as if I have his golden path to greatness

spelled out across my forehead.

He's open with me about the breakup.

He's letting the emotions spill out of his ears and

allowimg tears to carve down his cheeks, exposing the black

heartache that she forced on him.

It trails down his scrawny arms, dripping

from the exhausted fingers that he used to intertwine with

hers.

But I don't get it.

And I feel nothing.

He slumps in front of me

as the remaining fragments of his heart

sacrifice themselves to the cold ground.

He redraws his smile and fills in his eyes,

carefully coloring inside of his lines.

He stitches his wounds closed

and removes all signs of weakness.

I think he wants me to say something, but

the empty air is so inviting.

The silence of our friendship.

He says he'll be leaving now.

The comforting sense of detachment is interrupted

and I find myself asking if he is alright.

He says he's fine now.

A friendship of 13 years

with 13 years of useless information

shoved into my malleable brain.

He knows the silence walks along his golden path to greatness,

its cold feet trailing ashy footprints.

I'm just the under appreciated listen,

the best friend, if you dare.

And I am here to endure it all.

I am emotionless; I am happy.