He sang me to sleep with the scent of rosemary.
Told me the weight of his tears when they fell when we walked away from me.
A baby in his arms - with his face - was the last thing he would ever touch in that house besides the door knob.
I swear I can still feel the stubble on his cheek when he kissed me goodbye - good night.
I swear I can still smell the Old Spice,
Yet we were strangers in the greatest context.
I wished my father was just another face to me.
Stories warped and mutilated like the image I had of him stuck in my brain.
I looked in the mirror and felt his vain.
Our eyes were the same,
Golden pools of doubt staring at a reflection of what I grew to hate.
If he loves himself so much, why couldn't he stay for me?
A wax figure of what they both wanted me to be
Melting in the summer's heat.
All I wanted was the same love to be radiated onto me.
We stared at each other from across the mahogany,
My body shivering with an overflow of emotion and energy.
We stared at each other like we were staring at ourselves - horrified at what we let this relationship come to be.
The two clocks ticked above his head in sync with my heart beat.
We cried for the time lost.
"Did she ever tell you about the night I decided to leave?"
YOU ARE READING
The Swallows and the Sunsets
PoetryI tend to find meanings in things not intended to have one.
