Reminiscence of a Man

I stare at the wrinkles tracing his forehead,
His dark hands, weathered and worn,
And his tired, weary eyes.
I wonder, "Am I made from this man?"
A man whose demeanor can make one laugh, yet another frown.
He snores so loud at night—
I regret not cherishing the sound.
I read these thoughts aloud, no rhyme to guide them,
But every tear finds its pair,
Sliding down my pale cheeks.

I long for his presence—
I waited, still waiting, forever waiting.
Standing in the chilly breeze,
Hoping to see his headlights pierce through the night.

I woke up—no breakfast waiting,
Stood up—no slippers beside my bed.
Stepped outside—no raincoat to shield me.
A void in every routine.

I should hate him—
I must hate him.
Only then can I break free.