Blew it

He chose the seat next to her,
his only sign of affection: a head nod.
He couldn’t bring his eyes to smile
at his own daughter.
He’s always been a master
at bottling up emotions,
a reproduction of a man only perfect for himself.
If he dares to look into the eyes that resemble his own,
his mind might spiral
--

“that’s my girl!”
the crowd roared across the wet grass
she pointed to him as she turned away from the net.
his smile mirrored through the rain
and the referee blew the whistle.

“it’s all you!”
the wave peaked as she began to paddle
her adrenalyn radiated off of his.
he taught her to walk on water.

How well those moments made him.
They can’t be remade.
Take a chance to look at her, feel something

he’d honor how she treats her mother,
he’d admire the love she has for her girlfriend,
he’d be moved by the patience she’s practiced,
the determination she’s gained,
the understanding she’s refined,
and the forgiveness she’s conquered.
and he’d wish this were all just a game,
he could have kept those brown eyes in his life.

--
his mind is spiraling,
someone blow the whistle.