a love like no love

He plays the harp, but not better than your
heart strings. If he blinks, the sight of your
childhood home leaves his eyes, and you can no
longer see the leaves dropping from the willow
tree your great, great grandfather planted. His
fingers send repercussions throughout your body, back
to the sound of six-year-old you crying in the bathroom.
He doesn't ask why you do things, but rather
looks past your actions as if he is not there.
The grass does not wince when you step on it, and
alike that, he does not hate you for making the
morning coffee a little bit too sweet. You take
each other and understand things. After all, we
all need a retreat. Keeping things
short and sweet.