The Four Questions

All the conversations I struggled to have at the dinner table failed to communicate to you the fear I have of your indifference. Maybe if I could tell you what I need, you’d rush at once to get me the two ends of my desperate dreams. But the slight chance that you wouldn’t breaks the thread of words trying to escape my mouth into gasps and my cry for immediate help into a tortured smile.
If I tell you, Ma that I can’t hear the echo of your love in the hallways of our home anymore, would you hug me a bit tighter the next time I come home late?

You and I, we’ve never been in the same room for more than 5 minutes. The sound of your footsteps seem to always be in some kind of hurry than my urge to ask you about your day and before I even bat an eye about the agonizing distance between my love and yours, you’re already guiding your body out of the house. You’re physically a few steps away yet I can’t stop but think that this journey might take me years to reach you.
If I tell you, Pa that I’m afraid I’ll find a noman’s land of your rejection and silence as my destination, would you look back just once and prove me wrong?

I never really liked phone calls. You misinterpret the emotions of another so easily, you unintentionally dismiss their pain. The quiet teardrops do not ever make it through the cord and the firm hold of palm over the mouth succeeds each time to cage that choking sob in. A sanctified deceit, indeed. We talk so much yet share so little. You see, I’m failing so miserably to understand the certain ambiguities of brotherly love, silence has become my retreat.
If I tell you, big guy that I’ve grown weak in my efforts to make it through the day, would you listen intently the next time and provide me an easy way towards an inexorable breakdown?

You were never a talker but when you did talk, your words pierced their way through my skin like a sacred lance built just for one purpose, annihilating the one at the receiving end. A holy death I kept begging for on my knees. You branded me with your name. And the blows of your fist. Honey, now that I think, excruciating was the dream that made me yours, deary me, I had forgotten I haven’t even been mine yet.
4) So if I tell you, babe that you’ve drained the reservoir of my soul on your wasteland, hoping to reclaim what is now long gone, would you, then, let me go?

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