I was a baby when you died
I'm sure you held me at least once, my fingers tiny. Lost inside the parchment map of your aging palms. My typography for knowing right from wrong.
I don't know how you died. I don't know what its life to live while you're alive. I don't know how you died. I don't know what thats like.
And on a personal note I can say this is true, I hardly know you. Someone called for an organ grinder but I can't recall the tune. Men in ties, mom in a dress, my dad in blue. His new compass, new direction, without you.
Sometimes when I hear you cry, you seep into my father's eyes.
I don't know how you died. I don't know what thats like.
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