Bo's eyebrows jumped up slightly, and he looked over to Kartiel, blinking. His expression softened. "Well, we are friends, aren't we? I feel like we've been through enough together... like, yeah, we didn't start that way, but I like to think that now that you're more free there's nothing keeping you from being my friend or twisting your arm, so I don't have to overthink it as much." He reached up and gave Kartiel's shoulder a little pat. "I like what I see in you, and I enjoy you, and I love you, dude. That seems enough reason to call you friend to me."
"Of...Of course," Kartiel managed to get out. Bo wanted him to see him as a friend - he couldn't remember the last time that someone had wanted that. His gaze dropped down to his lap again. He just couldn't wrap his head around the fact that someone wanted to be friends with him after everything he had done.
Poetry is my cheap means of transportation. By the end of the poem the reader should be in a different place from where he started. I would like him to be slightly disoriented at the end, like I drove him outside of town at night and dropped him off in a cornfield. — Billy Collins
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