You speak, words lubricated with sweet liquor
before they plummet from your mouth.
Speech that nearly falls into your alcohol but
misses and sends ripples to my soul instead.
You tell me, your gaze a hound dog searching
my cerulean eyes, "I hope your father didn't
break your heart."
Without warning my throat closes in on itself
and my eyes turn glassy, but I smile a salt water
grin that burns my chapped lips.
Your hound gaze never having called off it's search
from my oceanic eyes observes me and
You voice, "I know that he broke your heart and
I'm sorry."
As though you are the man that my subconscious
creates night terrors about.
As though you are the man that violated my trust
in men, but there is no restraining order for the way
I flinch when a man raises his voice to the warrior pitch
every man is liable of.
You never needed to apologize for his abandonment.
I forgave the man that forgot about my existence
the moment he misplaced it, not because
he asked to be, but because I could not
hold onto that weighted burden for the rest of my life.
He had vanished years before he left our home and
when I peer into his murky eyes I know that I will never
see him with the same vision again.
