You are pristine in my absence,
healing once the picking hour ends.
I stare through our distance—
the fun-house mirror
that has morphed us into friends
who love,
but not in that way
anymore.

Who hug,
but never linger
long enough
to toy with hair and affections.
Who have committed to separate
directions in the sea—
we drift comfortably
and wave from splitting barges.

We bloom best
when left
to our own little acres,
and that
is what's hardest.