Your face is slate.

Your cracked skin was lost to the inferno 

that I heard ravenously consumed you 

over a dull landline at 9:42 AM. 

Tears were masked by static.

My hands, smooth of pain,

shaved away against yours,

kissed with the many canyons and gorges of a ravine.

That day, the sun had come out.

I was told you only spoke at dawn when your skin was 

golden, and you prayed. 

It didn’t help, to me, at least. 

Mornings weren’t the same, and nothing

was ever as bright.

You confused my hands for a servant’s

and held them stronger than I thought you

capable.

My chin was nestled in the nest that was your beard,

but I still felt your tears.

Lonesome strands of hair

clinging desperately to your dried, dilapidated scalp

were souvenirs of the time you lost

through drug testing and clinical trials. 

There was no cure, and as payment, here you sat.

You must have been strong.

Curled in a chair, your tongue betrayed you.

But I still understood your futile attempts 

at loving me.

When you left, I did not cry.

I didn’t know your 

life, smile,

voice.

I didn’t remember the color of your eyes,

nor your gait.

To others, you were a saint,

father, uncle, commissioner,

family.

To me, a stranger, 

legend and window obscured by 

damp fog by the sea.

But again and again, over and over, 

I lie awake, my eyes searching for yours 

in a vortex of cloudy hopes and dreams, asking myself: 

Who were you?