Absence – Iman Messado

I didn’t recognize the sound of my father’s voice.
He’s the one who gave me my voice,
who gave me my face,
my brain,
my thoughts,
my ambitions.
Absence is supposed
to make the heart grow fonder.
I’m recovering from an awkward phone call,
“Tu ne me reconnais pas? You don’t recognize me?”
“Oh! How are you?”
“I’m fine, I was just trying to call your mother.”
Absence sweetens memories past,
and drives the heart to long for what is no longer
and may have never
been there.
Absence is a buffer,
neutralizing the impact of the present.
Absence is the softest, most comfortable looking black hole.
I’m not sure if you ever emerge,
there’s only accommodation.


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