The pain feels like a stone in my chest,
a choking poisonous air,
nearly balanced with my apathy of its existence.
For setting a facade of brightness is a flavour I am all too used to.
Why proceed with a grandiose display of emotion, when such feelings are better left under lock and key?
No monsoon would arrive as soon as I cut myself open,
so wise and honest.
All that would be invited is a bitter knowledge that I,
I am without you.
Absent of my guardian angel,
he whose words have echoed throughout my brain for decades.
Mourning your loss is the most horrid, repulsive fruit I have ever been forced to swallow.
I pray this passes, for it is far more than I can manage.

Happy birthday, Dad.