I’m in your arms, on the ship’s bow, where there’s no breeze. There isn’t a ship, we’re in a car, and I’m only holding your hand. Though we are not in a car, we are in our favorite café, and you lean in to touch me. We have no favorite café. You aren’t near, you stare at me instead. There is no conversation. You are speaking, not speaking, you’re yelling. You aren’t holding me, you’re pushing me. There is nothing whole here. The ocean and the asphalt resemble broken glass. The menu isn’t because it’s tile, dirty tile, that we rarely clean. Grass that isn’t tile. You’re laying not next to me and you’re almost but never stroking my face because there is no place for you to touch because I’m turned away and looking after you. I’m tasting the breeze. There is no breeze. So I’m seeing the no waves and never seagulls on omitted ocean, in absence.