We’re striding with the morning rush to the station when you stop and lean close to a rose bush. I say you resemble a cliché. You say you’re looking, not smelling. I detect thorns in your voice.

At an outdoor café, you point at a lazy Saturday cloud. I say it resembles a cat. You say it looks like our past. The cloud loses its shape. I’m afraid to ask what you see.

An ant crawls across the patio table. When it stops by your plate, you fix your eyes. The bug starts to move away; you press with your thumb. The ant’s legs writhe from its crushed body. When I asked why, you say you weren’t done looking at it yet.

You kneel and stare at a crack in the sidewalk. I’m afraid someone might trip over you. When you stand, I ask if you saw a river? A lifeline? You say you saw a crack.

I can stare, too, I say, as we’re cleaning up after supper. You flip the dish towel over your shoulder and lean close, unblinking. After a few moments, I avert my eyes. I hear a scoff. You say it was a sigh.

You say I see what isn’t there. You see only what is.

I awake. You’re standing at the bedroom window and looking at a brimming moon. I say, “It’s beautiful,” and now I understand. “Too late,” you say. I hesitate then go back to bed. I dream we both stare at the sun and never see each other again.