The sunlight cuts through the window,
a blade of gold slicing the dust.
I sit here, waiting,
for nothing, for everything,
the phone silent as an abandoned church.
In this moment, I am my father’s son—
his voice still ringing
in the hollow hall of my chest,
though his body left the room
years ago.
I light another cigarette.
The ash falls like a prayer
no one will answer.
Outside, the trees sway,
whispering secrets to no one
in particular.
I have been to the edge of the world,
seen the black tide rise
and retreat. I have called it mercy
to be pulled back,
even when I begged to stay.
Each breath carries a note of repentance—
to whom, I no longer know.
To God? To myself? To the strangers
I pass on the street,
their faces a thousand mirrors.
Today, I will walk again
to the river,
watch the water carry itself forward,
relentless,
despite the weight of what it holds.
The dead fish, the leaves,
the small boy’s forgotten sandal.
I will look for myself there,
among the debris.
Perhaps, by nightfall,
I will find something
I can call my own.