You once admitted to me you'd never want to be like your father
You've grown to look just like him
Maybe that's why I don't recognize who you are anymore.
I remember that night you finished off half a bottle of *****
You kept crying and muttering into the bathroom mirror
"stop looking at me like that".
And to this day I swear
The thunderstorm we heard that night
Was evidence of God
But I still don't know if he was weeping for you
Or for me
Because every time you spoke the words
"I love you"
It sounded more like a cataclysm
Than it did an affirmation.
You once admitted to me you'd never want to be like your father
Yet you left me without saying goodbye.