Across years, across tangled histories, a familiar hand reaches. Lonely, whispers a half-forgotten voice.
I take the hand. Friendship.
Feelings are complicated, comes the reply.
Between my shoulder blades and through to my solar plexus, I feel the iron orb sitting heavily. Once, I loved easily, but faithfully. Now, years and scar tissue later, I do not love at all, not like then. The body is but an ambulatory meat sack, not the vehicle of passion; the heart within is bled dry of red roses and romance.
Once upon a time, I may have asked to reweave the threads of my life with theirs. Now, there is nothing left of thread or loom, and it would be reprehensible to pretend otherwise.
Feelings are complicated, I say in agreement.