He is like Him
In his physique.
A body made beautiful now distorted
He folds over himself as if
To make up for his size he shrinks his impact
There are empty rows but he still sits next to her
Cramping her space as if huddled for warmth
Tapping his fingers
Shifting his eyes
He seeks the companionship of strangers
He rattles on and on about planes on the plane
He knows them all
He recognizes this plane itself as it rolls down the runway She doesn't want to talk
And he silences his intelligent prattle.
Which is replaced by her fingers clicking numbers on sudoku. Why would she care about planes anyway?
That's his problem.
No one cares about his sharp wit or shitty planes,
His father never did.
He thinks I don't know how it feels to feel forgotten
An empty promise
He thinks his wife doesn't either
So he steeps in thought with no motivation
He gorges himself on Potential
And grows fat on the waste of it,
His father isn't proud of him
So how could he ever be proud of himself
Yet my father isn't proud of me
And I am proud.
For now,
But maybe when I am old
I will no longer be skinny and beautiful.
Maybe
I will fuel my fire with alcohol.
I will appear pregnant with ideas.
Maybe
I will appear like him, depressed
and stagnant.
When I am not stagnant.
I am still in waiting,