Sometimes it’s just a gentle touch
sometimes it’s pure ignorance.
He sits there empty, without an opinion
but always a shoulder, a body
ready to take any burden.
It’s hard to dislike the frame
but easy to criticize and say
“You could have done this”
Maybe the answer he offers is his silence
Maybe he speaks to you without speaking.
Yet at night you can feel so alone, so clueless
but somehow he puts one hand on your head and
mutters a soft prayer;
you feel the futility of emotions
and you wonder
is he living it better than me?
