The sad and limited AI
AI cannot break your heart
in slow, fracturing pieces
or phrases of feeling
like an onion
that doesn’t want
to be cut open
in your warm kitchen
on a spring evening
when the cardinals
are chattering
and mating outside
your modest
windows.
AI cannot feel
the tense muscles
of your lover’s back
when he lays on top of you
and you taste the
perfection
of his sweat.
AI cannot drink
warm red wine
from a hand-painted
cheap wine glass
while you sit alone
on your unswept
back porch and consider
the shape and chaos,
and the untamed smell
of long grass.
AI cannot hear the
softer barred owl
that you can never see
on a still trail
in the middle of
the bicentennial
greenway.
AI cannot write this.
AI cannot feel this,
see, touch, or experience
my precious life.
I am grateful
in knowing
simply that.
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