Knuckles crack
and matches are struck.
He lights his pipe,
and exhales a graceful,
billowing
cloud of smoke.
She watches, with
curious, young
eyes,
that peek through
the crack between
two massive
oak slabs of doors.
Brass handles, and
intricate, complicated designs
that this man who
sits in his study
with lost thoughts in his head,
thinks are beautiful. But
his daughter watches him,
he's hunched over
in his chair,
as if his thoughts
weigh his head down.
She wishes
she knew her father,
and in years to come,
she'll regret letting him
sulk in his study.
Because when the
cancer
came,
she had
nothing to say to him
while he was on his
death bed.