brown lace

“I would love to have met the father of my son”
-This is Us

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My Son

When I look at you
I see oceans of
memories, blue from
the sadness of my mistakes
and deep as the pain
of my flaws

I look at you
and I see the steam
of my coffee
awakening my soul
for the day
the reason for my
need to be awake

I look at you
and I see a box
like the one
I placed you in
limiting and suffocating you
in thick brown layers of
paper

I look at you
and see your mother
holding you to her chest
soothing you
with the sound of her
breathing
until your tears dried off
on her blouse

I look at you
and I see a grand piano
with every chord and key change
you become sound
and from sound
you become deep emotions
bringing tears of joy and sadness

I look at you
and see brown lace
blowing in the wind
flapping in the breeze
intertwining threads of
love and hate
unsettled by the pegs
that bind you to
this place

I look at you
and I see my features
etched in your skin
but
when I look at you
And look into the
depth of you
I see the night sky
dark and familiar
yet full of the unknown
bursting with mystery
and wonder

But, like this
night sky
you are too far away
my son
like the galaxy that
you have become
leaving me nothing but
a telescope
that I use to find you
each night
I become an astronomer
night after night
gazing and longing
for you
from far away

all I ask is
for you to
look down at me
and see my repentance
listen to the sound
of my sorrow
see for yourself
my acts of penance
and hear the
final lines of
my last song

“I beg of you, my Son
look at me
What is it you see?
Do I remind you of anything?
if so
What can it be?”

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left

victim and abuser, both bound in their own form of imprisonment.

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does it worry you
that when my skin
aches
it is only in
my dreams of you?

does not shame
creep into your smile
at the sight of
my fractured form
exposing veins and tendons
whipped clean of skin
by your leather whip
made from the leather
of your book of
empty lips

bones stripped of
their need to support
shatter to pieces
under you

I am left here
existing in the deep
sadness in my sleep
but you,
drifting bird,
will never know my
freedom
because you wear the
same ropes
you bound me with
etching themselves
deeper into you
until you become
one and the same

For you, I feel
deepest sympathy

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