before words became bruises,
before your hand was a weapon,
before my shirt lost its white,
and before tears were my food,
you were my father
and i was your son.
along with the
feathered fragment remains
in ashes of clipped wings,
he kept his love in a dust pan
from where the light would find it.
looking down through his glass
held by hands like bricks,
he saw where the wine from tears
had left their stains of disappointment
deep inside the splinters of a broken table.
he hoped the lonely tears that fell down his cheeks
were like the raindrops that fall down from the sky …
for only a little while.
that hover over the rocks and stones
in front of him
lead him with the wicked echos of regret
that his life had only become
his plan b.
the boy in the window
carving a broken heart in his breath,
realized the condensation dripping down
was like watching his tears…
die on his lips.
he freed his fingers from my hand
to paint his own van Gogh
on the side of another square
he felt was a better fit.
with a carnival balloon in hand
and paper banjos playing softly beside the river he walked home,
pausing only for a moment
to released the fictional helium hope
of ever finding his own huckleberry friend…
then quietly placed his love in the museum of his soul.
the pile of faded blue t-shirts
that sit silent in the corner of an empty room
still have the scented memories
of his wasted kisses, lost loves,
and the absent knowing
of how to feel something for someone.
a soul torn in half
both cold and broken
takes pictures in the dark
of yesterday’s closing door.