BREATHLESS

No father’s sparkle in his eye when he speaks of you.
Analytical, semi-present, stoic detachment,
he speaks as though you are
Mechanically faulty.
Cyborgs and living tissue in constant need of tending,
Require refluent tenderness too,
Or they will rust; cease.
Truth or fiction, my mind processes a story in
The tough clamp of his jaws, his granite posture, his lack of
motion
That reads:
He spends more than he’s rewarded; the years-long shadow
Ossifying tender flesh—to protect,
When the smallest admission could cause rupture
Of weak, tentative threads already pulling too little skin
Over too large a gash, sewn up too often.
Unraveling edges, expose blushes of gore.

Strangers, you and I;
Save for a common birth story.
Our first five minutes

Breathless.