You sit there as I toil,
Your legs crossed and body open,
Mine a rigid standard of stress,
A lonesome stillness.

You read - a tome which I long,
I truly wish, I could decipher.
What secrets lie within?
Lines on comfort and integration, I'm sure.

All appears so out of reach,
A record played one note off beat.
The park starts to empty and, Once again, alone I stand,
I am the statue, we both are carved

And long for life.