tonight, i look to the sky

for not the first time, but it’s been long
since i saw daddy in the clouds. my road trip
routine washed like sidewalk chalk in april
as i stopped believing but never forgot him.

i can’t pray to god, but i pray to my father,
ask for strength. i ask for his shoulder.

i have been flailing, fingers reached to nothing
day after day. there’s a coldness i try
to ignore as i’ve outgrown the little girl
who stared into deep blue looking for hidden
shapes, the outline of his smile.

nobody told me i wasn’t allowed to be angry
a small tornado grown stronger each year
but there seemed to be an unspoken rule
my bitter hands have craved into denim pockets.

i ask if he’s been watching, and somehow, i am
forgiven. somehow i know without knowing.
exhaustion leaves my chest as hot breath
caught in blocked lungs. he’s still here.
i can feel him tonight, from the backseat
of this stranger’s car on the way to a new bar.
i imagine his new smile tight lipped but still big.


Sam Frost is a writer living in Los Angeles. She spends her spare time eating bagels and drinking green tea, and she does most of her writing in her phone notes. Find her on Twitter @ sammfrostt 

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