I’m sitting, with my head tilting as I look at my father
I look at pictures were my father was young
He seems worn
I feel at fault, but it’s life’s fault.
He loves corn but his teeth are worn
And when I feel his worn hands
as he caresses my stomach
Those hands make me feel melancholy.
I feel a sadness that tells me that I have to hurry up and make of my life what it’s destined to be.
Patience, maybe that’s why you will never come to me.
Knowing that everything I love will one day die makes me not want to feel
I try to prepare myself for the end as it’s always near.
But I’ll never be ready.