I think my father is living like it means eventually dying.
I think my father is on a boat with 131 people on board and only 130 life jackets.
I think my father screams like he is always the 131st.
In the nights that glow
until we forget which country we are in
and the rest of us are sleeping and my father is awake,
sitting at the table, picking at pieces of bread,
my father is a man waiting.
My father grows the circles around his eyes
like he will look at them one day and wonder where all the years have gone.
He sits on his own and hums the tunes to songs he has forgotten the names of
and waits until the echoes of his voice grow like salt rings on the walls.
We are sleeping and he sits on his own,
I think my father is alone.
I think my father wakes only to know he can sleep again and feel a quiet kind of nothing.
I think my father is holding on
I think my father closes his eyes in the early hours and sees nothing but rooms, empty except for instruments he cannot play