oldcroghan man--donald trump in his garbage uniform--dissection of the moon

They tanned him as one does leather, I would run my hand over his skin and feel every pore magnified by age; whatever crawling in and out relaxing the hole over time on a microscopic level builds up to overlapping craters on the moon-- every morning getting farther away by 0.01035616438 cm. You can feel the stubble fried off and withered like a burnt-out forest when you touch his face, it feels like decay and smells like charred leaves at the bottom of a firepit when you are trying to set the flame. I imagine I am a blind detrivore who likes it. I imagine a me who touches him and can love it, I imagine I'm a person who can see beauty in anything put before me but I can't control my stomach. I cried because he called me thoughtful without me ever putting the word in his mouth, it's exactly the word I aspire to... Selfishly I called because his version of the world includes me only at my best. I'm constantly worried I ruined it--tonight, tomorrow, someday down the line. The moon is moving away from me, 3.78 cm every year--soon I will know her 86.94 cm less than I did when we hadn't known each other at all.