I am here, where you belong, somehow transported to your space. But this embrace, dad, is bear, it bears no similarity to your own. Where are you now, closet smoker? Where are you hiding in these cracks too small to sneer? I am waiting. Waiting on the corner where you work to see your saunter; waiting by the Italian arc to hear my name.
I cannot leave without you. And so I sit here, implanted poorly in the world that is not mine, among your own, your art, my you. Missing you, dad, is marking it all as mine. Your phone in hand. Your computer pounding at my fingertips. Hoarding all that is left; the small of entities ascribed to you; the smell of closet up in arms.
I sit by the Venesian cafe where we sipped espresso and cream, chugged elderberry sodas when they were still somewhat foreign. I sit by the stoop where I arrived after school to announce myself and annunciate our closeness.
I sit here and wish back, want back, go back by closing my eyes just enough to blur the beings, the breaths around me. Even in spring, I hope for your snow.
