We lay together like sprawling roots from a tree. We have been here so long I almost question if we are rooted. Our bodies fatigued from the pressure of holding ourselves up. You hang on me so casually that I don't mind it I actually like it. When you rest are you really at ease, are your muscles relaxed and are your eyes closed? I don't move so that I can savor every minute of our bodies pieced together and when you stir I hold my breath. Do you stare at me as intently as I stare at you? Even with my eyes closed I could tell you which way your hair grows and the way you struggle to contain the unruly strands. From your collar to your socks I could recite the patterns of your chest, fingers, and digits. There's a photo album at our feet that we abandoned when we became lazily rooted to the loveseat. I watched you as you scanned the old photographs that I wasn't a part of and I look for a hint of longing. If you prefered the time in the photos over your time with me on the loveseat would you tell me? Would I care? The dusty photo album tickles our noses or maybe it's the spring season wafting in through the open windows. Either way you put the photos away with yearning, fantasy, or was that resentment? I change the part in my hair in the hopes that you'll notice. You don't. I pretend to forget the growth of yours.