I know
I am writing this
Thinking about this
Rather than you

To tell of trees in the distance
That have turned to stone
The dusty chess pieces
The scar on my thumb

Sure
You can turn the page
Close your heart like a fist
Tear me from your mind, but look

You too appreciate
Silent walls in the house
And how pockets are
On different sides of the coat

Plus, there is little to report
Than a neighbour pinning laundry, as she
Composes a line of collars and sleeves, and
A bird abandoning her swaying branch

When all I am contemplating
Are these bookends here on my shelf
Cut from the same marble
Identical, yet far apart

Like you and I
Who manage to be separated
All this time by leaf upon leaf of words
Their stories, scenes, and endless interpretations

I at the desk with my dad’s inkpot, and
You leaning back on a seat somewhere
Near music or a racket
Reading me