You don’t read books, and your sentences are hollow, U are simply there, without cuts to mark a path.
A passive, innocent addict.
Innocent in the way only loneliness Can weave itself into sincerity.
You stand at the kitchen window, slumped, watching birds, speaking of voyages across the sea
You light up when describing a place that does not yet exist.
You gather the morning’s crusts, place them in the wooden bowl you carved, so they rest easily among the branches outside.
You insist the Robin waits for you, that there is a language between you. I nod. What else is there to say?
You are a dubious kind of man, with more than one name, making sounds of soil and roots Only I can hear.
And so we fall asleep each night, entwined, at the bottom of the world.
