Um ein Busenfreund, year 2008. You showed me your family portrait once when we were back in school, dressed up in neatly pressed uniforms and living school day by day like tuckered out kids. Back then when you were little, you did not have freckles like you do now — to me, they are the most just being ingrained on your skin. Less than an imperfection that you pointed out feebly, they look like dust from the field where you last cradled a football. Through tenacious times, we have shared with each other confessions, little problems boxed within bigger problems. Erstwhile, when we both felt suicidal, I have had you to count on. While I sat down and started twisting my bedroom’s curtains until they crease, you sped across roads on your skateboard to join me in the partake of dreadful sadness and potions. Even when having preferred smoking drags and climbing seats to talking, you have taught me good in the most discreet manner to appreciate monologues and silence, (this alone being something I could never thank you enough for).