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?

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