my father and i began walking in opposite directions. he picked up an interest in history, and i dropped all that i was holding to find poetry in the air.
what he had experienced once so softly and wildeyed, was now on its way to becoming a thing. could he still feel the softness of the terrain we both travelled?
for him, the roots of words became something to heed of - as if you could ever dig up a word without killing it.
for me, what was left of words was the sound and the image, the tone and the texture. what was left of words was the world and feelings.
i thought our worlds wouldn’t meet again but there we were, standing at the house of love, which was at the centre of our paths all along. i ran toward him and he ran toward me, and we passed through each other, and it set off two disparate paths circling back to one another for eternity.