Father,
I come to you again,
not seeking, not hoping,
just pressing my forehead into the dust
where these same words have knelt a thousand times.
The stars have lost their place tonight,
and the great skies lean over me like roof beams, cracking—
still, I bring this voice to you,
as though the same hand of mine, lifting,
could know how to silence the storm.
This room,
where ** play like my fears did as a child,
takes no notice of the wear in my knees,
and the silence between each breath widens,
falling deep into its ancient chasm.
Father,
do you hear me,
or is that the echo I designed for you,
to mask what should never be heard?
They say you would be closer if I closed my eyes
and whispered what weighs the heart heavy,
but I've long forgotten the way—
instead,
there is only the hollow of asking,
and the blindfold that comforted me
when I was young,
and you were more than a name.
Perhaps it's madness that keeps me here,
coming to a door
that knows not my knock—
an old man, fingers raw,
rapping against a gate,
hoping one day, they say,
the stone will groan open,
and let through that light
he has only heard others describe.
You,
Father—
are you tired
of the names I've shouted
in moments of doubt?
Yet still, I tell myself,
"Tomorrow,
maybe tomorrow,"
and it feels like a needle
I've learned to thread
with a trembling hand.
Still,
I will return—
not because I believe,
no,
but because I know no other place
where my cries might fall
without breaking something more.
You, Father, remain a silhouette
against my eyes shut tight,
a place for the loneliest language
to find a shape.
And maybe this is what they meant by faith—
the hand against emptiness,
and the heart learning, slowly,
to whisper against the roar
of a silence larger than any promise,
just as stars sit heavy above
a night that refuses to end.
