Thursday, March 26, 2015


Stephanie's next door neighbor stopped playing the piano a week ago. I knocked on his door, a pretty girl in a soccer jersey and hipster panties opened, her ebony hair a velvet skyfall. These are the sort of things that strengthen my sense of abandonment.

Her father is nothing like mine. Some days are better than others but it's not true what they say, that it gets easier with time. The sudden rushes of pain are exactly alike, just not as predictable as they used to be. Little things keep reminding me: a newspaper headline, black cotton socks, the smell of smoke and cinnamon.

They used to tell me that as long as I remembered him he would never be gone, until they didn't. I grew up faster than I had to and the stories quickly changed. Every illusion I ever had was shattered along the way, except for one. It's the air that keeps me breathing, the reason why I still force myself to go on.

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