only after dark

a story of presence without belonging

You gave me a curfew

not when I was a child

but when I told you

who I am

I could visit

but not stay

not after dark

and I remember thinking

this is how something ends

without anyone

saying the word

Because it wasn’t just a rule

it was a line

drawn quietly

but clearly

between the son you could hold

and the one

you didn’t know what to do with

And I keep coming back

to what we could have been

not in anger

but in that soft place

where memory

and hope

used to sit together

I imagine a version of you

who didn’t hesitate

who didn’t measure me

against discomfort

who didn’t pause

before claiming me

out loud

I imagine a home

where I didn’t have to edit

my life

before I spoke it

where I could stay

past sunset

not because of the time

but because

I was wanted

fully

Do you know

how many versions

of us

I have grieved

the conversations

we never had

the ease

we never found

the pride

you never quite let yourself feel

even when I became someone

you could have pointed to

and said

that’s my son

I built a life

I did the work

I became whole

and somewhere in that becoming

I realized

I was still hoping

you would meet me there

But you stayed

just far enough away

to keep things manageable

and that distance

it’s not loud

it doesn’t shout

it just lingers

like an empty chair

at a table

that was set

for two

There is no anger left here

just a quiet

steady ache

for what might have been

for the version of us

that didn’t need conditions

for the nights

that could have stretched

longer

full of stories

laughter

ordinary things

instead of endings

that came too early

I am still your son

that has never changed

but sometimes

it feels like

we are living

in two different versions

of that truth

And I carry both

the one that is

and the one

that never got the chance

to be

And I am learning

slowly

how to let go

of the life

we didn’t live

without losing

the part of me

that still wished

we could have.