how do i answer that? already unbecoming, there are times i hardly recognise you, and did i ever think i would miss the you that once threw a pot with such force it was marked, dented, where it hit the wall just inches above my face. it made a mark like a checkmark, and that’s what we called it ever after: get me a pot — the checkmark pot? that one?

i am older now and i understand your rages better, even as i envy your aim, these days less true and prone to error. i wish you one last good one, your famous arm as strong as any man’s, as it was in its peak.

when i turn my face up to you when you leave it’s with the expectation of that arm.

you kiss my cheek, instead.