After my shower, I stared at the bathroom mirror looking at the little details of my face; examining the dark circles under my eyes. I imagined that my father looked at himself the same way, stressing over the imperfections and ignoring his strong eyes or broad chin. Perhaps we were both staring at ourselves at the same time, looking for a way to accept our mistakes or trying to find a meaning to life. Or perhaps I’m just a little drunk.
We sat at our wooden table,
you and I,
staring at each other’s eyes.
I didn’t mind that our food was cold
or that my legs were sound asleep.
I just wanted to stare deep
into the dark abyss of your eyes
from across the table;
and for a moment,
if only for a moment,
forget that you and I
were millions of miles apart.
When in reality,
it was only a small wooden table
which stood between us.
I am the primitive, the archaic truth.
The son, the father,
and the prodigal youth.
I am the fear, the clowning jest
the courage, the blood
divvying out the final rest.
I am the hope, the despair,
Absolute and Resolute,
in all my judgments, true and fair.
And as quickly as I come,
I am…
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