It’s the only one who doesn't judge. I’m the only one who cares for it. One worn soccer ball with dirt stained leather and broken lining. A ball that anyone else would have thrown out. One worn ball bought by me. From the bench, I see it laying in the sun, sitting and waiting for its owner to kick it again.
It's captivating emotion is mysterious. It creates emotion simply by being kicked. It flies and it falls and it soars the sky and crashes into the ground and never changes. This is how it understands.
If I were to lose it, it would deflate like a balloon over the course of weeks, with each day passing without notice. Kick, kick, kick everyday for years. It helps.
When I am upset and when I am alone, when there’s nothing, the ball is there. When there is no reason. Together we grew and aged. Together we continue to kick and kick.