written 10 March 2025
most days I don't think about you.
most days go by and I
don't see your eyes in my eyes
or your hair in my hair
or your thighs in my thighs
or your gut in my gut
because you're not on my mind
when I let my eyes shut at night.
most days I don't hear your laugh in my own
and I don't see your name on my phone
because you don't call
and I don't text
because we both know
that silence is best
for a familial tie
that should never see the light.
most days when I look at my clothes
I don't see them hanging
in the closet of your home
because I haven't been there in years,
and I barely even hear
the squeaking of my rocking chair
or the creaking of your stairs
because your door is no longer across from my door
and we no longer tread on the same hardwood floors
and I no longer have to fall asleep every friday night
with a heart full of fright.
and most days I'm doing just fine
but sometimes I know that you're lying in bed
and I know the kinds of things that go on in your head
and it makes me sick to think
that half of my genes are yours.