Questions

He looks at me, rubbing his stomach in rapid blurred motion.
His eyes are hazy-sad as he communicates the timeless signal in
more ways than one. I tell him that I'm sorry. I'm not. I tell him
that I can't help him. Who am I to say this? His eyes are sad, but
are they honest? Is that even relevant? Where does he sleep when
I climb under clean and soft covers ? How does he escape this
situation? Can I blame him if he teleports - hands cupped around
a plastic bottle?

If it were me, I might be him.

Oh God, break my hardened heart and scatter it out on the pavement.

Bleached

Lonely driftwood
purified by the rough love
of the ocean;
graded and sand-papered,
smoothed out to white.