Elio, Oliver, Father

My body has an expiration date.

Gazes pass over the wrinkles

and the scars

and the broken look in my eyes

and they know I am too broken

maybe corrupted

possibly shattered.

The downward turn of my lips

is worn

and unwanted

maybe disgusting

possibly unnerving.

Like the sun

I long for my moon

but unlike the earth

I am unworthy of followers

and unlike my hands

I will never find my pair.

And like the rest of our miserable souls

I will sit in the corner

with my head staring

at the cracks of my torso

wondering why it has been

dim for so long.

I pray when I turn

around, only to see the mirror

that laughs in my face

and points with the fingers

of a last hope, reminding me that my

middle too empty

and my feet are calloused

and my hair is thin

and my arms droop

and my shoulders stay hunched.

The beauty of Freedom

is soiled in my hands

because I long for captivity

but never find my way in

a cage.

Birds manage to stay caught

but I am a fox

and I always find the latch.

The death of the brain

comes after the heart

but I haven’t killed either,

my brain still sits in a jumbled mess

and my heart struggles

to beat, my ribs

clutch at my regret

to keep it protected

but the moon longs for the sun

and I’ve never had an eclipse.