​He’s here, yet you’re not afraid. The room isn’t well-lit, he is rolling a joint, and you’re trying to fall asleep. 
He’s sitting next to you, playing songs on his phone, fiddling with the keys, an occasional smile, a random beep from a text, and that’s all. And you’re lying next to him, eyes closed, breathing.
There’s something very plain, very regular about him. He’s not the kind that terrifies you, urges you, he’s not even the kind that soothes you, he’s the kind that just is.
In the way the smoke fails to form rings out of his lips, in the way his eyes droop faster than his trail of thoughts, in the ways he’s still a kid, in the fights, in the food often shared, there’s something about him that teaches you something about yourself.
He’s just another kind, not the one you’d ever write poetry on. But he’ll be there, doing absolutely nothing, and you’ll learn. You’ll learn to believe. To accept. To let go. To breathe. You’ll learn to lip sync to songs you don’t quite like, to binge on series and laugh your arse off, to forget for a while how self pity felt like.
You’ll learn how to be naked in a stranger’s room and not be watched. And perhaps, one of these days, you’ll learn to trust again too.