05/10/2018
06:04 PM
Dad, I'm sorry that all the proverbs and aphorisms about love you told me and the metaphors it contained all fell lifeless in front of the woman I offered my life for. I couldn't live by them, couldn't make you proud of how I redeemed myself from the downfall you saw with your eyes when I first found love, and how it turned to fiasco.
It was pricey—looking for the facsimile of the relationship you had with mom, well, until you died.
I'm sorry I tried embracing the wilderness of the love we partook on relishing. Perhaps, I tried hard extending my shoulders to no avail for it wouldn't fit in.
It was futile—all the explorations I signed up for all led to more questions than when I began.
I'm sorry I carried all the weight with nobody to take turns with me. I was high on love, drifting away from the ground where you said I should keep my feet on. But my heart kept making the first step, like could I ever supersede what gives the very motion and rhythm needed for its beating?
It was drenching—bathing with promises of forever only to find out that forever's only attainable once you recognize you're not the only one seeking it.
I'm sorry, dad: I didn't find what you asked me to.
It was myself—that I found instead.
YOU ARE READING
Albeit flawed,
PoesíaI was basking under the sun-the waves muffle the sound of my breathing; and I bury myself with cautionary confidence in the sand and with it the memory of your four faces. How can something lethal be life-restorative?
