Six Months Ago Moment

I'm looking at the way he has his hair flipped over one side of his scalp; it's umkempt yet smooth enough to fall almost neatly next to his cheek. It's light brown, but in the late afternoon sunlight it's almost blonde. We're sitting on his roof and I'm telling him things, random things, like the way my mom says "mmhm" sometimes for no apparent reason. I don't know if he's listening or not. It doesn't matter. I feel like sharing whatever stream of consciousness comes to mind, and today it doesn't feel like it's terribly important that someone intently listens to every word. We watch birds fly over our heads and listen to the boys next door get ready for a night of drinking after a day of work. Our interaction is tentatively comfortable, with occasional long pauses that don't feel awkward to me. Maybe they do to him, but he's not making a move to go anywhere.

I know I won't see him again for a long while after this, and that too doesn't matter. Our moments together are only moments, not the promise of something stronger or longer, and I can make peace with the knowledge that they stand alone in time.