Today my father told me he can no longer afford to meet up with his friends.
It’s not for a lack of time
and never for a lack of love,
the money just isn’t there.
He told me money can’t buy happiness,
but if you can’t afford to do what you love,
what’s the difference?
It’s this thought that injects me with guilt and panic,
guilt for my panic.
Guilt for the way I’m planning my solo escape from our realized prison.
Panic that even after all my planning,
the window may never open.
Not for a lack of will
and never for a lack of belief,
but because the window never had latches to begin with.