Lonely for words unspoken

I know my best friend trusts me and thinks I'm funny. I also know that he admires my prodigious moral compass, which most people think makes me a pain in the ass. (The evening we went shopping for his mother's birthday present was memorable; I believe after hearing the phrase "blood diamonds" about a thousand times, he ended up giving her pearls.) I know he feels this way because he drunk dialed me. Actually, he drunk dialed my voicemail, which is safer (and even more gutless).

He is far more comfortable, though, ribbing me. Teasing me. If my hair was longer, he would pull my ponytail. I like to think this is his way of sublimating sexual tension. But then, I like to think that Martin Sheen is President.

My best friend makes thoughtful little gestures. He sends me song downloads and magazine articles he thinks I'd appreciate. Most recently he purchased a lovely little tome about farting called "Pee-Ew, Is that You, Bertie?" for my six year old nephew, who loved every page. My birthday is next week, and I know he will remember it with a gift that is just as appropriate.

I need to hear him say it, though. I want him to tell me, sober, that I matter to him, that I am special to him. Sometimes I want to hear it so badly that I ache.