Fudge S21. 4

In a witching hour,
without the tongue to explain,  
hit vertigo as if dehydrated
chase all the words
we could have said
before muscle was lost  
and break
over sunken memories
fudged by time, your persona religion.  
Those shadows come calling,
that time I combed nits
from your hair, the year
you found your Dad swinging
from the bathroom ceiling,
sunk into bathroom floor,  
when drugs smudged the grieving.  
We'd chosen to lie to each other,
falsified pureness. I hold those choices
as long loved out of date fashion
behind sliding doors -  
pancakes and smoke,
smoke and fucking,
police, out running.  
Your Mother was still feeding her woe,
us trying not to destroy each other,
seething with what parents should be,
and what parents aren't.  
I suppose what I'm saying is
I don't hold it against you,
nor wear it as a thorn in my sole,
but often hope you're not as wrecked
with time, taking an alleyway
as a bedchamber,
dreaming of turning to stone,
cracking to dust in the Sun.