i do not talk about my father.

he is a man i never knew,

shrouded in mystery;

uncertainty.

i have no memories of his face—

but i found the features of mine in at the bottom of a box,

caught in a better time

light hitting his skin like a revelation,

something like a smile dancing on his lips.

he was tall

had glasses

wore shirts that let the air swim in them—

made his flesh look paper-thin.

he's like me, then;

limbs stretching to the heavens

like a city in prayer,

hiding in clothes that do not fit

hoping to be found between the fabric and the flesh.

i wear lenses that you cannot see;

every man i meet feels like you:

empty

empty

empty.

where did you go?

i have waited for you since the day i was born.