I don't have a title for this one yet.

i.
scratched epitaphs,
silent in the breeze.

and taking my hand,
i'll trace your name,
carve a place underneath my skin
that will still bleed.

ii.
all that i am
and all that i have become:
a faceless name in a crowd;
you and i are the same,
immoveable.
(and even granite
no less as stoic)

iii.
years will pass
(but i will still find
your face)

with shaking hands,
i'll trace words
into the fibers of
your patchwork silk:

"i love you,
daddy".