Your friends are not your friends

Your friends are not your friends.
There is no such thing as a friend.
The wasp devours the honeybee on his dutiful search
For the final flower.
The flower stagnates, smelling sweet for no one.
If it’s true that you kill the things you love
Then she loved me very much.
God, He gives us miracles of which we have only heard rumors.
There are these little birds that sing to each other
At 2 AM
In the trees right outside my window
And I lie awake listening to them
Because if there is a God
He doesn’t fucking care that I have to wake up at 6 AM
To renew this cycle of miserable existence.
Your friends are not your friends.
The flower dies waiting for the honeybee
Who has died by the sting of the grinning wasp
And God takes no notice.
I miss the beauty of your nudity
In a moonlight almost sacred
And the gentle lulling lies of your words:
Almost as if you meant them
And every word was meant just for me.

John Tustin writes poetry and love letters in his exile.

[image: Asian giant hornets assault honeybee hive | Alastair Macewen]