• "What do you think he thinks of me?"
    -
    I'm not sure, but I'm sure he loves you
    He can't not.
    He's your father.
    -
    "Yeah, I know.
    But how am I supposed to know.
    I've never even spoken to him before."
    -
    I stared down at my
    Left index finger.
    It gushed a drop of red where it'd been
    Slit open.
    Stupid confession letter.
    My hand squeezed around it.
    The ink stained paper crackle.
    Half expecting to see it break to pieces
    Like a flower clutched to
    Tight.
    Knuckles white
    My thin, wintered pale skin stranded over
    Ever bone.
    Ready to rip at the scars
    Left behind from childhood conflicts.
    -
    "I'm so pathetic."
    -
    Don't say that.

    He lightly encased my fist with two of his.

    You know better.

    Pressed his luke warm lips to mine.

    You know so much better.
    -
    I couldn't reply to his soft gaze.
    Too ashamed.
    -
    "No, I don't."
    -
    He sighed.
    -
    His breath, too sweet for me to smell
    For my own good.
    Too unworthy.
    -
    "Don't be disappointed.
    There's still time.
    No hurry."

    His left arm slid behind my neck.
    Pulled me to his chest.
    Swiftly, but gently placed his right hand under my
    No longer bleeding finger.
    Pressed his lips to it
    Moistening the dried blood
    To it's original state.
    -
    I couldn't help myself.
    I giggled at the delicate, tickling touch.
    -
    He twisted his head to reach my ear
    And whispered a song.
    -
    "Simona
    Wish I had known that
    What seemed so strong
    Has been and gone"

    " I would call you up every Saturday night
    And we both stayed out 'til the morning light
    And we sang, 'Here we go again'
    And though time goes by
    I will always be
    In a club with you
    In 1973
    Singing 'Here we go again'"
    -
    My head rested on his collar bone
    And sleep pulled me in.