It is one throughout the years. For each thumb of mine he displays
a scenery of worry seeking comfort. Back full of freckles, twin of the sky.
When I say I talk to God I don’t mean it like he’s by my side. Instead there is this man
who resembles my father. Not the baby boy. The one who makes me flinch
and moan. No amount of salted water, noise or fury
will peel the imprint of rules set so long ago I came by default.
John left. I had to stop him and type this down.