There was a magic to his home.
A power of masculinity that's difficult to put into words.
I kneeled on the other side of his door, listening to the muffled sounds of family. It was a strange sensation. A private moment. A conversation that I wasn't supposed to hear, but couldn't bring myself to turn away from.
Their voices were tense, filled with caution and resentment.
I couldn't make out the words, but I didn't need to.
The emotions were palpable, as if they were seeping through his door and into my bones.
So I sat there, listening, knowing there was nothing I could do but bear witness.
In those moments of uncertainty, I knew that he would always be there for me. A constant source of relief and solace in an ever-changing world.
But I was wrong.
I soon realized there was something strangely horrific about the human experience.
YOU ARE READING
Morning Songs
PoetryMorning songs is a sweet and tragic collection created in a time of unfurling need. A balance between tenderness and the greed of love. Less speaking, and more taking jabs at forcing you to question how much goodness you hold. From syrupy memories...
