To Memory:

Memory,you are a delicate thread, a tape-loop of laughter, hands molding clay,sticky ice cream fingers,the way he’d tilt his head,as if trying to catch the light and the sun that danced in his smiles

I count the birthdays missed,balloons floating to ceilings,each one a year without his giggles, and there’s silence rather than the echo of his voice

There’s a massive destructive ache in the hollow of my chest,a space where his quirks should be lived ,the way he’d scrunch his nose, full of spirit,filled with life

I trace the outlines in the photographs the way he’d leap like a star, to make the shot and I wish he knew how deeply he’s missed by this old man that I’ve become

Memory:
You gift me the light of the past,but leave me cold in the present,a longing that sits like stone in the pit of my stomach

Each day, I walk through the fires of hurt searching for my son, who still lives in the cracks of my soul, yet he’s never here