A Myth called Closure

Seems like yesterday when you'd caught hold of my diary and wouldn't give it back before sneaking a peek. You'd opened the pages where I'd written this:

Be the home I return to for laughter 
When I turn around let me find you laughing too

Be there 
to share with me what I lovingly cook up
let your heart be a canvass for my colours
Let me paint my dreams

Be there
when I bring home a homeless little baby
Help me bring her up.

Be my church and my temple
Pardon me when I err

Be successful in what you do
so that I can take inspiration

Was that the day when you'd sealed the fate of our friendship?

I know the kind of jokes that would make you laugh, that you like to listen more than speak, that you stop for that clandestine cigarette not in front of the stall in front of your apartment but at the one a little further away (although the chances of your mother (who probably knows that you smoke) discovering you smoke are very remote). 

I know that you value your friendships. Once when we were walking with friends, I fell behind to tie my laces, to see if you would turn around and wait till I caught up. You did.
I know these these things about you (that will absolutely of no use to me soon)
 
Whom are you kidding? I know you like me, you always have.
You are at peace when I am around as if there is order suddenly in this chaotic world, as if everything is as it should be in our random lives. I know this about us.

This knowing you and being friends with you didn't happen in a day.

This note though is about today.

Unlike every other time, today I spared the pillion on your bike for your fiancee. Obviously dancing with you was out of the question at the club. Thus, while you were dancing with your fiancee I was left at the gracious company of her friends.
Occasionally I stole a glance to see if you were happy. I caught you looking at me wondering if I was feeling lost among new people. 

Your fiancee, I am sure, is a fine woman. One day, she'll know you more closely than I've known you.Can there be an end to how much there is to know about a person?
Occasionally in those stolen moments while deeply inhaling a smoke, you would perhaps think of me, of those long drives along pristine beaches, on silken roads.

Having let you go, I on the other hand would forever have the satisfaction of having known you once in my own way and having written about it.