yesterday, you sat on your father’s lap and asked him to tell you about his past.
instead, he gave you something drenched in an ache that made you pass out on his chest.
your father looks different today. he moves around in a way that makes it seem like he is about to run away with something. as if he has something in his fists that you will never see again.
you think back to the days
when your mother and your father would enter a room with faces full of lust and secrecy.
before they learnt that lovers set things on fire and then leave only ashes behind.
your father gets up from the kitchen table and dries a piece of paper, wet with his tears.
after he leaves, you crawl to the table without waking your mother.
you read the words in his voice :
if ever i turn into a photograph you keep folded in your pocket,
if ever i turn into a dent in your skin from our last encounter,
if ever i turn into a smell so strong it keeps your nose prisoner;
remember that i came to you untouched.
i came to you as something thick.
i was the boy with the thirsty eyes and the mouth filled with guiltless love.
remember, so that you may swell up at the mere thought of me.