Hearts On Their Sleeves

I don’t know what I did to you?

(I only ask because you told me to fuck off!”)

Your anger is misplaced , it cuts me but it is coming from somewhere beyond me.

The way you disengage, and turn the page, the way you check out and glaze oever, not caring about anything.

All this belittling and disdain, written all over your face,

no idea how much has been given to you and no gratitude for any of it.

Then there is you,

all balcked out eyes,

trmbling fingers,

frowning face,

sarcastic words.

Then there is the one who asked me what a Dad is?

He said he did asked because he has never had one.

So, I told him that a Dad is hte one man who you hate growing up and then come to respect more than anyone you know and if you are lucky you get to tell him before it is too late.

(sometimes though, it will be too late.)

He is the one who will hold you up even when you have nort asked and don’t even he did until much later on,

the one who will hold the door open for your long after you have slammed it shut.

I remember the girl,

I saw her crying, yesterday, big tears from lovely eyes,

I wondered if anyione would be there to catch those tears that fell along her cheeks?

(I knew it had to be that boy with the sagging pants and all that out loud bravado.)

stepping all overt your joy and confidence just waiting for his cue and never failing to notice.

Both of you all fire and force,

you, all sweetness and fine mist,

he all swagger and rebellion,

She a knockout smile and blond hair, eyes red from crying and wearing her heart on her sleeve.

(there it is easy for him to see which is why he hurts her so easily.)

T. S. Deary