Spiritual

"Don't you want to get a place of your own and a job." I asked him. He stopped suddenly and sat down. I joined him on the grass. "If I did. I would miss all this." He said. Pulling at his filthy jacket. The sarcasm cutting me like a knife. His tone softened. As if he had relented. "I don't fit." He said, matter of factly. "This world was built by people like you for people like you. I don't see the world the way you do." He paused to pick a buttercup out of the grass. For a while he gazed down at the small, bright yellow flower. Twirling it in his fingers. The light reflecting from it casting a yellow shadow on the dirty skin of his hands. "You see this buttercup?" He asked.