No, I wasn’t close to him.
I was in fact, afraid of him.
The persona of that man,
Who was my dad.

No, I wasn’t close to him.
Yet I tattooed him on my hand.
The energy of that man,
Is what I am.

He hid his storms,
So perfectly.
Like the life under the calmest waters.
Like a rainbow under a monochrome.

No, I wasn’t close to him.
I was his most precious pearl,
That he protected me,
Like a piece of gold.

Now, who could have imagined,
A sudden departure.
I couldn’t imagine,
Such an indifferent mourn.

Years later,
Still living on the bread he left.
Still thriving on the butter,
He chose to leave, for us instead.

It’s a treasure.
Heaps of things,
To survive without a worry.
To build a house with that penny.

When the priest came in today,
To bless us with good luck,
For the new house.
I ran and brought you out,
Kept you along with the god’s statues.
Nothing will be complete without you.

No, I wasn’t close to him.
I was born out of him.
So distant, then and now, too.
Still hiding the tears, when I miss you.

No, I wasn’t close to him.
Yes, I’m indebted.
Yes, I’m grateful.
For the life given to me.

No, I wasn’t close to him.
Yes, I keep him close now.
In a photograph, framed in my room.
In a photograph, in my wallet.
In the ink on my skin.
In the way that I speak,
In the way that I walk,
In the way I behave,
In a prayer to the god,
When I look at the stars.

You are the god,
I’m indebted to.
You are, my impression of,
Perennial melancholy.

Yes, I’m close to him now.
I am afterall, a part of him.
That shell of a man,
Who was my dad.

-uk

Existential Crisis.