I tell him:

The seagull was walking in front of me
along the sidewalk, like a person
unaware of its petulant look,
it suddenly turned left and entered a park.

He says:

There are still many marvels to see
when silence surrounds our bed,
and I drum my fingers on your stomach
burning without audible sound.

I ask him:

Why was the seagull walking like a person
so far from the sea? It almost looked like
a doctor in a Chekhov story heading to a visit,
pigeons swarmed around it, as if expectant.

He says:

Do you think we have invented our living?
Opened a door into nothing, for example,
defying contradictions, just to be here
committed to disruption enclosing skin.

I tell him:

The seagull looked like a murmuring inventor
preserving secrets by accident,
already short of breath while fueling
the wit to decipher real thinking and all
possibilities partially kept.