Your jeans are tight on your thighs, you are unshaven, I think you are beautiful. I’m surprised that I notice, I never really see you anymore. We linger by the duck pond where you pull a packet of bread crumbs from your back pocket. Feathery creatures rush up as though they know you. Lately when we make love it is without passion. My mind wanders to other men I’ve known, I wonder about them, where they are, what became of them. I never want you to know. You are pure, trusting, so naive darling it it is frightening. Lovers pass by, they don’t speak. One is distracted, detached. The other emaciated with the eyes of a corpse, like a woman who loves but is far away.