Stranded In The Hopeless Middle

Beloved,   
    
There was an empty space       
blocking your imprint on the bed.       
The warmth of your skin       
and the contours of your silhouette       
buzzed through the nerve endings       
on my fingertips,       
I missed you so much.     
  
All night, an abnormal growth       
festered in my lungs       
because the old man       
has begun to die.       
I struggled for my breath       
as fate´s sucker punch       
finally broke his back.   
  
My father,       
      
The man I waited for at the door       
with my coat and         
peanut buttter and jelly lunch       
to go for a ride in the mustang       
that I could not see       
over the dashboard       
(he knew the way)       
now, finds comfort       
in the same old westerns       
he can recite       
with his eyes closed.       
      
You like to think you don´t cry       
but I´ve seen it too many times       
in your own distant way;       
something we pretend       
to not acknowledge.       
I see you decompose       
while watching T.V on the couch,       
a place you once perched to       
like an eagle.       
      
I had a dream about       
walking Jayden to school       
on the sidewalks I traversed       
in an old life.       
      
How do I tell him?       
"Papa is going to die"       
while he emphatically       
shakes his head "no!"       
How do I tell him?       
that the men in his life       
are not suppost to leave him       
though they keep doing it.       
      
Beloved,      
      
Spain moves in circles       
while I stand helplessly       
in the middle, paralyzed;       
waiting for my turn to move on.       
      
The passing of the sun       
merely marks the time       
of a means to an end       
till the day       
I can fall like a rock       
onto the contours       
of your warm skin       
in the bosom       
of the east coast