perSONA

My stepfather and I struggle to communicate. We love each other, but we really struggle to talk. It is as much my fault as it is his.

Futility knocks me down like a bully in the playground,
your graceful repelling of conversation as we
look at the windscreen wipers in front of us,
and my embarrassed stillness as the
needle on the fuel gauge slowly dips.

I just thought maybe small talk could become big talk.

And even though the rain is still hurling itself with
the passion of van Gogh against the glass,
and the wind is blowing angrily whilst a schizophrenic
duet of Beethoven and static is playing on the radio,
it is still absolutely quiet.

And in the middle of this nauseating neon disarray of
jaundiced yellow and first-period red,
I feel confused and horrified that it is our
silence that will burst each others' ear drums,
because at times I can hear it become louder than
the tortured screams of a thousand beached and rotting whales.

But it's the gradual greying of your beard
and wrinkling of your face that sends glaciers down my spine,
because I know you only have so much hair and skin left
before it all just becomes white noise.