He's mine. I don't care what you do with him, so long as you acknowledge this.

Fuck him, date him, move in with him, love him, marry him, be my guest. He's a damned bear in the mornings, so you know. He's still mine, though.

Make him happy. I like what's mine to glow, to shine with pleasure in being. Still mine.

We're mates of a kind, but there are other kinds, and you're welcome to fill those roles. He's mine, don't forget.

I'll tell you this: Screw him over, desert him thoughtlessly or carelessly, and you'll know a new meaning of hurt. He is mine, after all.

He's mine, and I'm his. We've never needed a touch or a kiss or frilly words of love. We just are.

Best friends are like that, after all.