You clock in like it’s sport.
Bare minimum effort,
maximum proximity.
Enough to say you showed up -
not enough to matter.

I am the weather
you wade through
on the way to his sun.
Your shoes stay dry,
your conscience cleaner
than it deserves.

You breathe my warmth
like free air.
Touch softness
without ever asking
what it costs to be this open.

You sip from my life,
call it kind,
but only when it’s convenient.
When you’re not too busy
filing fantasies
under someone else’s name.

And still -
you linger.
You sit in the quiet I built,
wearing your smug smile
like a medal
you didn’t earn.

Trophies come with rules.
Show up.
Stay present.
Give a ****.

But you parade around
with your little ribbon of recognition,
plastic pride on a shelf
gathering dust.
Not for winning.
Just for being nearby
when something beautiful bloomed.

You didn’t plant a thing.
Didn’t water.
Didn’t tend.

But here you are,
touching the petals,
posing for the picture,
as if the garden
knows your name.