It was a subtle hand to the head that told the whole story
An aged father aside his beloved son – two entirely strung-out somebody’s getting by on a most envious wing ‘n’ a prayer
Slay the cancer, father, come on home to dance with Mum and I again
Between these chandeliers
Next, Dad touches my grotesque beard – modern day mistakes – and whispers within my eagerly resolute ear
“Son, honest to goodness this thing’ll be either the making or breaking of me… can we not just wait and see!?”
They teared on up, unable to any longer fixate upon one such harrowing man’s golden-age complications
Distant, if only for a freeze-frame instance
Make. Every. Single. Memory. Count. Goddamnit.

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