You are smooth
Like young skin.
It is this present, separating the two.
You always new.
So í present me as í will and wilt be.
Your grains grew.
Hard to go against.
A backwards shove.
A cat pet the wrong way.
Your backwards glance, surreptitiously noticed.
I told you
I pay attention to your punctution.
Paints dried as fast as grass grew.
But, never as fast as the weather changed.
Everything happened so quickly
Living with punctuated equilibrium ages me in bursts.
The course grain leaves red rubs on skin like indian burns from childhood.
Asked for and still bemoaned.
Like saying: I miss you.