I was born into a broken home–
my mother was faithful,
my father was not.
I never knew my parents as one–
never saw them watch the news or touch.
I don’t remember before the separation.
It was dark and in November
the day he moved out,
the day I lost him.
I visited him some weekends,
but I never found him.
Life wouldn’t allow it, yet.
At times, our relationship regressed–
his words would sting my heart
with a poison so potent.
There were moments of light,
of hope that I had found him,
but the shadows were never far behind.
Years passed by with no sign,
no hint of recovering the lost.
I began to worry for him, for myself.
Just as the shadows began to dominate,
I found what needed finding–
my hopes, my wings, myself.
The lost one was not he who left,
but rather the one trailing behind,
always searching, always in pain.

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