I walked into you at the department store. You were shopping, holding a red, shiny bag and the hand of a child. Blonde, just like you. She looks like you, except for those eyes, so deep and dark. You didn't notice me. You never do, I've made sure of that. And your eyes, they're still blue and clear, as open as ever.
I walked away with a little light in my heart. I didn't snap at the super, or glare at the neighbors. I didn't slam the apartment door and throw my boots against the wall. I didn't break the glasses, or scream myself hoarse. I didn't have a cigarette.
It's a bad habit I picked up, long after I left you. You wouldn't like it. You'd wrinkle your nose so cutely, just like you used to, and glare at me. I only smoke once or twice a day though. Still, you wouldn't want to be around a smoker. You wouldn't want your daughter around a smoker.
You wouldn't want your daughter around me anyway. I would be labeled a bad influence. Always leaving, always running away, jumping out of windows and breaking in. That's not something you want to expose her to. Not to pent up anger that explodes irrationally, not to the violence and hatred I cycle through my system.
It's as essential as blood, that violence, that hate, that fury. I live on it, breathe it. I go for days without eating, without drinking, driven by my anger and my cigarettes. You daughter shouldn't see that, sweet and blonde, naïve still, innocent still.
Was I ever innocent? You used to say I was, whispering it to me in the dark hours of the night, stroking my shoulder with a comforting hand. I miss that hand, miss that touch. Insomnia has replaced it. At night I sit in the window, chain smoking, trying to drive you out of my head.
I never drink though. Just that one night, that one ugly night and I haven't touched it since. You wouldn't know, I've been very careful in that area. I've been very careful in my drinking too. No alcohol, just coffee. Endless cups of caffeine that jack me up after my sleepless nights.
You wouldn't recognize me now. I'm just a shadow of myself. I am not the man you once knew, strong and confident. It's eaten away, the self-hatred, the sleepless nights, and the furious storms, at my being, at my soul. Spiritual cancer, like the one that will grow in my lungs after all these cigarettes. But your daughter didn't see that.
She turned her head and glanced at me, just a fleeting second. And it lit my heart. It wasn't you that lightened my steps that day. I love you still, deeply and passionately. But your love, your love is wound up with all that nacreous rage and loathing. I can hardly see the love anymore; my eyes are so blinded by the darkness.
But her, her sweet blue eyes, so full of quiet promise, of interest and childishness. That was what stopped me. She loves without thought, motive, or agenda. Her love is pure and uncomplicated; the only beauty I can see in the torn and mangled world.
And this is why I can't be near her, can't be around her. I would pollute her; infect her with the parasitic emotions that have so drained me. Those deep and dark eyes, so young, have to be protected. Even from me. Especially from me.
I don't deserve her, just like I never deserved you. And I know you didn't believe that, but it is the plain truth. Not once have I given a reason to be worthy of you love, your patience, or your respect. Through the years I denied you, ignored you, raged at you. I gave you no reason to love me. Now there is nothing of me left to love.
I left so she would not know me, so that I could never poison her serene naïveté. And I left so that you could rebuild, find a love that was strong and healthy, able to support you without fear. You may think you still want me, still need me, still love me. And too often I have heeded your calls, and exposed you to the void in my being.
But your daughter, blonde dear heart, deserves to be sheltered from the remains of me. She, sweet child, in her infinite kindness and gentleness, deserves a real father. I can give her no sign, not a hint, for the damage I would inflict would be irrevocable. I cannot bring myself to sully her placid universe just because I desire a single hug, a single "I love you".
And so I can give you nothing, nothing but the pain and misery and anguish which I have already bestowed. And to her, to your dear, wise, gentle daughter, who is so like you. To the quiet blonde princess I have only one connection. My only gift, my only legacy for her, my child, are those deep and dark eyes.