Saudade

agápe (2)

You love to run, so at least twice a week without fail

so we find a track-field-place for you to satisfy this urge. 

Twice a week without fail, I run for about five minutes

 before refusing to do so anymore. You, of course,  

complain about it but ultimately walk next to me as

twilight gently navigates itself above us. 

It's then that I really get to talk to you, sweat dripping

down your face and cooling between our hands. You tell me

the bare bones of what your father hasn't said to you lately 

and it's enough for me to fill in the body, flesh him out until

his hollowed presence looms between us, irritated and solemn

for reasons I'm still trying to understand. 

"We don't hate each other, it's more like we're roommates.

He asks me if I need anything for school and

I tell him when we're out of milk."

You play the disaffected son well, I find.

It takes a few weeks but eventually, I can hear the

bitterness coating your words and the longing

hidden in the silver lining of your voice.