I watched your mouth move as it was about to form words,
But stiffness registered on your lips as if to bury what needed to be said,
Breaths were visible in the cold.
Five years later I realised I was wrong about your occupation.
I knew you loved magic
But I didn’t think you would practice one of your tricks on me.
Disappear, you are an embodiment of an illusion, father,
But now I realised when your wicked tongue couldn’t produce words
That they were a ‘dead language’
The absence of you is where I look now, deadbeat.