I remember the night you came home crying.
You were drunk and you’d driven an hour.
You were crying.
Your breath smelled like Spaghetti Bolognese… but you filled the sauce so heavily with wine that it smelled entirely of wine.
You couldn’t even drink your coffee or take off your shoes
and I realized feeling deeply was hereditary.
like old branches giving in.
It made me
warm then suddenly surrounded by cold water. Cracking through the ice
someone took an axe to the tree you nurtured and it tore through the sky
the gaping hole it left was just too much
drinking coffee was like throwing stones down your throat, I watched you cry and cry. Your
tears floated midair, shot at me, then smashed into your lap. I watched each one
I checked on you seven times that night. Your door
creaked each time
and the noise made you stir. I was sorry
I prayed to God