Two. There are two reasons for this foreboding. One for each year that you have spent living. Me? Not so. May you never look like me. My eyes won't be yours. And you will never speak like me. That's the atrocity of my illusive pining. Where do my lies catch fire? How long do they burn for? I think of you and there is less to say, more to see. One day you will ask of me. All answers will fall short of a second. And you, just like them, will never be whole. Till the day you stop asking, of course. I pray God grants you the speech of the mute. Never foray in my search. I am the parent who will no longer be scorned.
Ten. There are ten black cats which cross the road. One for each year you blamed me for your fair share of bad luck. In your dreams you tell me your tales of misery and I pretend to listen. Some acts are better ruses than wiles forgone. There lies no compassion at this doorstep. These are steps to a house torn down. Young blood turns bad. A new moon for every phase. Change becomes a river polluted.
Fifteen. There are fifteen minutes you struggle to fall asleep. One for each year of excuses coughed for a forsaken future. There are more wishes cast than curses in the sky. Some ends never meet. Some means serve no purpose. You have run miles shorter than pauses taken. Child, where must you have stopped had you ever begun?
Twenty-one. There are twenty-one bruises on your arm. One for each year you carried the memory of our forgotten home. Mockery is a rant that succumbs to defeated prayers. The apple does not fall far from the tree. They say one destroys the lot. Go on then. Be the lot that bears the weight of an innocent crime. Sorrow is a glass of freshly poured wine. And tonight, we drink our wounds dry.
Cover picture by Gustav Klimt
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