Fix your mouth you said back then when I caught you off guard by mirroring yours. Today, I see the soft beige a rounded smile in my periphery. I love you just like then but quieter now. Like bread rising under a tea towel, I extend it with tenderness keeping out a tasteful eye of admiration, keeping myself astray. Do not touch. The plaque beneath the statue reminds me that, Hellenistic art can fall apart if pressured by its viewer. I do not touch. Nor write nor call. I think of you only sometimes. Send you thoughts of unconditional happiness and that other one – when I see a blackbird, or hear it singing in the dead of night. You were not a blackbird though, but a puppet mastered by your mind. Fragile but touched, torn from one day to another. Now, calcified and settled, grown roots and seen the sun then struck, become a Michelangelo, a steady wonder of this world. Someone we can never touch – I am glad.