Poetry

Beloved,  
   
There was an empty space      
blocking your imprint on the bed.      
The warmth of your skin      
and the contours of your silhouette      
buzzed through the nerve endings      
on my fingertips,      
I missed you so much.    
 
All night, an abnormal growth      
festered in my lungs      
because the old man      
has begun to die.      
I struggled for my breath      
as fate´s sucker punch      
finally broke his back.  
 
My father,      
     
The man I waited for at the door      
with my coat and        
peanut buttter and jelly lunch      
to go for a ride in the mustang      
that I could not see      
over the dashboard      
(he knew the way)      
now, finds comfort      
in the same old westerns      
he can recite      
with his eyes closed.      
     
You like to think you don´t cry      
but I´ve seen it too many times      
in your own distant way;      
something we pretend      
to not acknowledge.      
I see you decompose      
while watching T.V on the couch,      
a place you once perched to      
like an eagle.      
     
I had a dream about      
walking Jayden to school      
on the sidewalks I traversed      
in an old life.      
     
How do I tell him?      
"Papa is going to die"      
while he emphatically      
shakes his head "no!"      
How do I tell him?      
that the men in his life      
are not suppost to leave him      
though they keep doing it.      
     
Beloved,     
     
Spain moves in circles      
while I stand helplessly      
in the middle, paralyzed;      
waiting for my turn to move on.      
     
The passing of the sun      
merely marks the time      
of a means to an end      
till the day      
I can fall like a rock      
onto the contours      
of your warm skin      
in the bosom      
of the east coast.