A friend doesn’t stand at the trailhead,
pointing ahead,
urging you forward with hollow words.
A friend laces up their worn-out shoes,
takes the first step beside you,
not because the path is easy,
but because you’re on it.
They walk with you
through blistering deserts,
where the sun steals your voice;
they steady you on icy ridges,
where one misstep feels like the end.
Through tangled forests of doubt,
and rivers swollen with silent grief,
they don’t offer directions from afar,
they simply say, “I’m here,”
and keep walking.
No grand speeches, no quotes, no conditions,
just the quiet rhythm of shared steps,
the warmth of a presence
that refuses to fade.
A friend doesn’t ask you to walk with them.
A friend walks with you,
across every terrain,
through every storm,
all the way home.