dead giveaway
and it’s like every time he stops and sees someone do something that he did
and he feels that swell of anger
because that was his and that is what he did and no matter how he tries to hate he can’t deny what made him himand maybe that hurts the worst of all - like when he left all of him got scattered and absorbed by everyone else to constantly remind him that he was there and he walked there and he held his head that way
a girl with blue eyes
a child imitating the stance of his father, arms crossed, jaw stiff
a woman squinting in the sun
the old man bending to look at the flower
like all of creation is there or the memory of someone they loved too
like they are reminded and everything is testament to a beautiful and grand secret that they carry in their pockets like loose change or car keysdistractedly staring at these people he is not allowed to know but grieving just the same with white knuckles on the wheel and a distorted sense of ownership - like a trench coat balled in the trunk of your car makes you responsible for the person who wore it and who they were and what they did and all the actions that made them up and every word that they said and every time they looked at you or looked just past you…like you were a horizon…
like a second childhood coming far too late and all he wants to do is clutch him to his chest and scream to keep away
keep away because it was mine.
he was mine.
