Your voice is a tin can in foreign lands; your breath weighs as heavy as my aching heart. My young lady, conquering the world, decayed to a shadow, cast on a green wall.
“Don’t worry, Dad, the doctors are good,” feels empty, but I’m chained to my encouraging smile.
My heart cheers upon your return, but I can’t make sense of your words. The swagger in your steps is someone else’s; your sound leaves a bitter aftertaste. Dinner’s left cold. Bed untouched.
Where do you roam at night?