HIM

Him...

You are just like him,

She says, you really know how to hurt yourself.  I see the worn picture of him I grasp it tight in my hands, His brown messy hair battling itself to stay combed; His hazel oval shaped eyes and shady face from his lack of shaving. This small picture is like a mirror, I look into it: I find myself slowly turning into him: Every mistake is pierced into my heart like every sharp object that is much to cliché to bring into such context. You are just like him! Why does she say this, will I be just like him? I want to shake his hand, I want to look into his eyes and say ‘why’. Phone conversations later and I believe he is gone. Could he be just a shade in the back of my mind? The picture is over used; I memorize every corner, ever wrinkle and bend, every crease and corner of this freeze in time. Did he know? Did he know he was going to leave, get scared, did he know I would be sitting there 17 years later holding the only thought I have of him, hoping that somehow that slight belief in faith might bring him to save me? I want him, want him more than a lover, more than a friend, more than a new film from my favorite director, more than life itself I want a father. I don’t need him; I have a memory that tells me lies, that makes me believe he is still here. I want him; a great desire that builds up and on nights like tonight I can’t help but think what is he doing right now. Is this self-pity I wonder, is there any way to hold on and still let go? I want to know him and be proud of when she says

You are just like him.