replete

In memory, a haven:
a hodge-podge warren
of tumbled jumbled
twenty-somethings
fumbling forward
towards glory.
A bubbling pot of
potential and catastrophe
replete with the requisite
friendships and fights
and flirting and fussing and fun...
and that we are, all,
so many years along,
that we are - 
so far from where we were -
that we are yet,
still, friends
(though time and distance
and commitments dilute)
friends, still,
though friendship now measured
in texts and messages and emoji
instead of daily beers and brawls
and bawling and falling down laughing
and such, and so
my heart with fullness knows
friends we are
haven we were
still home we ever will be