DNA.
I thought I caught his
face
as I moved from the mirror
saw his walk as I lurched
through empty
streets.
Even my hands now
hold his thick veins
calluses and
wrinkled skin.
My arm falls
behind my back
in that damn same
way I
don’t smell of whisky
my chin lacks stubble
there's an absence
of violence.
He’s dead of course
and yet I feel him
in my pain
in my blood
my poetry.
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