He smokes like my father,
puffing slow on plants
that leave behind a scent
comparable to indecision
and desperation.
There’s something in his eyes like my father’s,
a light that flickers fast
from bright to utter darkness
comparable to dreams
and lost hope.
He has a temper like my father,
a way of abandoning logic
and speaking in tongues
comparable to hushed lullabies
and lost language.
He loves like my father,
putting forth his all
while withdrawing with ease
comparable to a fleeting glace
and an everlasting gaze.
I love him like I did my father,
admire him
yet fear him
afraid he’ll walk away
like my father.

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