(watered wings)

My brain is a tijuana switchblade snuck across the border by a loving father in a manner he hasn't mentioned even three years later now just to earn the smallest bit of respect from the jaded new york son who contended himself long ago that his sophomoric notions of oedipal hatred were completely unfounded (least of all by the somewhat stunningly obvious fact that he never once held the desire to fuck his mother [whether by pussy or mouth - assholes being completely out of the question for the good old heterosexual slant on the standard grecco complex...not that he ever held a lusty yen for her asshole either]) and he could live a life simply accepting that the two of them would never hold much of anything in common and that was fine.

All well and fine.

Besides, he was never much one for the paternal. least, not inasmuchas he could remember. he always loved his father for the most part. loved him as much as he could with a little quiet removal by at least 3000 miles (and closing now that dad's started migrating further into the country away from the state said boy always imagined would crumble off and sink deep into the sea thereby ridding him of certain questionable memories once and for all).

Sure there were times he was unflinchingly close to his pops. but as our boy grew he realized there was much that he couldn't share with dad. his love life. his habits. his mother's affection (she living too even further from his father in principle much more than practice).

He's sure there will even be times ahead when he's glad to have the old man's hand on his shoulder. happy to know that he is loved by a figure wrapped in strong arms and calloused fingers.

For now though, he let's the switchblade sit at the bottom of a lost trunk under a hundred other missing dreams and he goes about his routine of living wondering where the fuck it is he can fit in the world.

Answering the phone from time to time, but never talking very long...


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