that day
those words
long since blocked
from the mind
went a little
like this:
The world
isn't how
you know it.
"One day
you'll understand,"
were the helpful
words of
an uncle.
The shattering
from the innocence
of youth
all too real.
The veneer
washed away
by my father's
tears rolling
down
his cheek.
As the condensation
did the window pane.
This is why
morning
is called
mourning.
I was
wide awake.
For the first time.
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