Same picture again

I sat on the library steps. Hot afternoon. Laptop on my knees. I opened the folder. Four sixty one shots from Lisbon. I told myself they were for Werner.

I scrolled slow. Rooftops. Trams. A man with a guitar in a doorway. Then I felt it. They are all the same. The same sad thing in every one.

They are not for Werner. They are not for work. They are a letter. To my dad. I have been writing it for eight years and I never put a name on the front. God. That is so messed up.

I closed the laptop. I walked home past the little fairy lights in the courtyard. I did not look up. The corner of a print was digging into my ribs the whole way.

I will not draft him tonight. The drafts are not the way now. I do not know what is. I do not even know if he would open it if I sent it.