He’s a broken man, and he knows it.

His ears ache when God

speaks to him at 10 p.m.,

and no amount of vodka will

make the voice stop.

In the mornings, he wishes for

something different—

though he’s not sure what or why.

You meet him when you’re at

your own low. You’ve never heard

God, and the smell of

alcohol makes you hide

beneath your bed,

hoping the door stays shut.

You don’t ask his name,

and he doesn’t care to know yours.

It’s easier that way.

He writes poetry—lines

that remind you of the moon

breaking through an empty sky.

You tell him, _keep writing, please._

_Your words could save the world,_

_maybe even me_.

But he shakes his head,

says he’s not interested in

saving anyone.

_I’m not who you think I am,_

_Not who you want me to be._

He’s not your father.

He won’t get better for you,

and has no obligation to try.

You nod, _I know, I know._

But deep down,

you still hope he’s proud,

hope that he never leaves.

He tells you to keep going.

You’re smart, you’re good.

But he will never be your father,

and you have to let that go.