He is like Him

He is like Him

In his physique.

A body made beautiful now distorted He folds over himself as if

To make up for his size he shrinks his impact There are empty rows but he still sits next to her

Cramping her space as if huddled for warmth Tapping his fingers

Shifting his eyes

He seeks the companionship of strangers

He rattles on and on about planes on the plane He knows them all

He recognizes this plane itself as it rolls down the runway She doesn't want to talk

And he silences his intelligent prattle.

Which is replaced by her fingers clicking numbers on sudoku. Why would she care about planes

anyway?

That's his problem.

No one cares about his sharp wit or shitty planes, His father never did.

He thinks I don't know how it feels to feel forgotten An empty promise

He thinks his wife doesn't either

So he steeps in thought with no motivation He gorges himself on Potential

And grows fat on the waste of it, His father isn't proud of him

So how could he ever be proud of himself Yet my father isn't proud of me

And I am proud.

For now,

But maybe when I am old

I will no longer be skinny and beautiful. Maybe

I will fuel my fire with alcohol.

I will appear pregnant with ideas. Maybe

I will appear like him, depressed and stagnant.

When I am not stagnant.

I am still in waiting,