The distance between us changes more rapidly now. I wasn't prepared for that. They were more alert, brighter, quicker, Yesterday. Not really yesterday— I'm a poet, I take liberties. They stumble now; Unable to process at the speed at which I've always demanded. They tire easily now. (Or is it I am more aware of their tiring?) Regardless, I don't want to write this poem I don't like where it’s going. I don't like how they haven't visited in over a decade. I don't like how my "likes" have become the concern of this poem. There's no neat and tidy ending here. Feelings give way... The pen stumbles... Punctuation fails. An interlude is created and kept in. A pothole is treated. The road is still clunky. Is the road the poem, my life, or the other in the "us" I write about? This messiness distracts me. I dislike this messiness the most. Let's go roller skating again. Let's go on a hike. Let's eat eggrolls downtown Walking while looking at art While I imagine no other way to do either.