it is snowing in june when i meet him for the first time. he has bright eyes and greying hair and skin much darker than mine, and he hugs me like he has known me since birth. my mother calls him my father, and so at four years old, i name him dad. i don't know if he hears me say it.
he is a good man, good enough to have a wife and three children an ocean away. good enough to read his mother poetry as she passed, to play guitar four hours a day at age 12, to lay awake at night hoping his sons are sleeping soundly. just not good enough to know my favourite food, or the movie that always cheers me up, or what i look like with flaming cheeks and tears in my eyes.
he tells me he loves me through the phone like he is programmed to say it but the words won't leave my throat. he falls asleep on his silk pillow without knowing if i am okay or not, and i cannot blame him because i do the same to him.
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probably gonna delete or edit this in the morning but. needed to write this
