The next time I looked at you, 

I thought you seemed so small. 

I, at five feet

craned my neck 

to scrutinize your six—

measure your frailty,

feeble, a faucet leak to my waterfall. 

 

I am intentional 

and you spoke with 

file cabinets at the edges of your mouth.

Your words: lackluster drafts, 

half-formed and delivered

in every direction but mine—

and your hand was too light for my taste. 

Your cursive was not curved enough, 

your verse not sonic enough, 

your diction lacked exactitude. 

I thank God I did not have to carry it 

out. 

 

The next time I looked at you, 

it was through a lens, 

textured and fogged. Your frame 

lost shadow in my periphery. Your outline 

blurred in backward glance. Your smallness, though, 

exalted in retrospect.