August 28, 2010
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His hair was old steel doused in snowflakes
With scratchy sideburns reaching down
To cheeks that crinkled when he smiled,
Which was most of the time.
His face was
Old and pockmarked,
But it held a distinct echo
Of the handsome youth
In the grainy, black and white photographs.
I love him and
I remember his love
And his smell and his warm calloused hands.
But I didn’t get to say goodbye
So I can’t quite remember
The colour of his eyes.
(They might have been brown,
Like mine.)

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