Like a 4 year old, covering my face.
I can't see you.
You won't exist if I refuse to acknowledge your existence, so I put my headphones on and turn the radio up. I turn my attention back to the table where I have spread out a new puzzle, 1,000 beautiful pieces waiting to be ordered.

It is one hour later and I have been absorbed in my angry thoughts, flicking pieces and sorting and patching a sky together. You sit on the couch, and when I glance at you your mouth starts moving.
Can't hear you.

Another hour, there is a horizon, the skyline, a mossy earth. I need to fill in the details, though, and I don't even turn to see if you're there anymore.

You are and you yank the wires out of my ears, startling me from wanderings of self-righteousness.
I'm sorry, 'aight?
I blink.
You were right, you say. I shouldn't have done that. Now will you leave the stupid puzzle and hug me?

I hug you, and we finish the mountains together.