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.
looking down through his glass
he saw where the tears of wine
had left their stains of disappointment
deep inside the splinters of a broken table.
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.
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 …
the pile of faded out 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.
enduring the season
where wine numbs the hurt,
his feet push down old memories of missed loves
deep into the coarse shelled sand
where tides quickly wash away …
another year passed alone.
the hidden winds blew
and what was once written,
is now erased.
surrounded by caffeine and smoke,
he painted his portrait
in the misty colors of his personal mythology
to obscure the bruises and scars
only visible to him.
thickly layered and fragile
he sat in his safe space
framed by the things he’d become.
jealous for never taking chances
or challenging his truths
made of glue and antiseptic.