Moonlight Dad

I went to your old apartment —
what’s left of it, anyway.
Ash on the sidewalk,
glass like little stars on the ground.
I didn’t cry.
I just sat there
and counted the cracks in the doorframe,
like maybe you left pieces of yourself behind.

The one-story house is painted blue now.
Strangers live in your room.
I stood outside like I was waiting
for a version of you
that still comes home.

I wish on the moon like it knows your name.
Whisper to stars like they can feel pain.
I keep my voice low,
so no one hears it shake —
but the more I think of you,
the more my chest aches.
If love could break locks
I’d bring you back.
I’d give up every birthday
just to have you back.

Tía Heidi let me sit in the garage
where you used to sleep —
it still smells like paint and rain.
I laid down where your blanket used to be,
and I didn’t cry.
But my throat got tight.
And I held onto my Bendy doll
like it could hold me back.

They almost tore it once —
the one you gave me.
So I lied.
Said it was from a teacher.
I couldn’t let them break
the only soft thing I had from you.

I wish on the moon like it still works.
Pray to the sky even when it hurts.
And the more I remember,
the more I forget how to smile
without breaking in two.
I miss you.
Even when I’m mad at you.
Even when your voice
is just static on a screen.

Sometimes I stare at your letters
and trace every word
like they’ll turn into hands
that can hold me again.

Sometimes I pretend you’re just
in the next room,
just asleep —
and not behind glass.

I wish on the moon even though it’s far.
I keep hoping love can pass through bars.
I want to be better
but the past pulls hard —
like shadows that don’t want to let go.
And I still whisper:
“Come home, Dad.”
Even if no one ever hears it but the stars.