Alone by the tree.
I miss you.
Warm like your hand
Touching my cheek.
Closing my eyes,
I see you.
Warm like my hand
Touching your hair.
I shrug…but not where she can see me.
When she can see me, I smile and offer opinions, which are worthless.
She knows not to pay attention to my opinions.
They are sincere enough, but they are based on well-practiced confusion about how things look.
When we go shopping I am drawn to things that move or tick or hum,
Things that work, whether or not they are useful.
They are good if they have parts that fit together,
Forming a functional completeness.
I am fascinated or at least appreciative.
Things that hang or blend together seem accidental like a pile of leaves.