Why?

Why to touch what has
settled into a coil -
why to add to a stagnation?

I see you crawl
around your point -
slowly you’re inching away.

Not further. Not behind.
Elsewhere, on the finite globe,
the mind that has us, two thoughts.

Why to look through the same lens 
when I want it further
and you need it larger?

These venomous trails,
that were once our ballads
are broken compasses, that’s all.

I don’t mind waking up to a blur.
Why do I care to clean
your glasses?