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
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.
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.
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.
with the flowers quickly fading
and his parents now passed,
he listened for their whisper through the rain
just to have some small hope
he wasn’t alone.