You’re becoming less a stranger and more a steady figurine,
an attitude with legs and lips, arms anxious for comfort,
a face recognizable with a rhythm we’ve come to read like cue sheets
shaping your melodic beats to life in a quatrain of grunts and stretches.
The routine is a torturous day away from your weight and noise,
comforting in its incessantness and unrefined depth,
away from the other half of your lineage and the other half of my heart:
like Orville the selfless orange, if I could give myself to those I love,
like Orville my slices would be long gone, only rinds for myself.