I remember him.
I still dream about him sometimes,
except there he is softer
and he speaks to me.

I remember him;
things he used to do,
the way the world used to be.
he was the sun
and he looked the part.
he hurt to look at,
the curve of his lips
stained the insides of my eyelids
and left me blind.

"I broke you," he once said.
he meant it, he sounded proud.
how excruciatingly distressing it is
to want to teach someone
whom you are afraid of.

I remember him.
he would play with the curls
that fell out when my hair was *******,
the ones on the back of my neck.
he twirled them around his fingers
and crept into the nothingness
like some spreading web.

oh, but then there's the cruelty
without shadow of blossoming.
he was fond of slamming doors,
simply because he could.
everyone saw stars in his tired eyes
and in turn began to feel them in their own.
leaving was always a question
of whether he would say goodbye.
he seldom did so.

I remember the colors in his face
brushed on by his father the sun,
as he showed me how to use his gun.
I wish I had it back.
not him, the gun.
I don't know.

I was pretending to look away.
he was balling up paper plates
and throwing them in the trash.
we were riding in the backseat of the car,
we were up in the balcony, crying
we were rarely out in the sun.

it all started with him not knowing my name.
I think it ended that way, too.