"I tell you kid," he said, taking a long drag of the cigarette balancing between his old, weathered fingers. "There's two kinds of people in the world, regarding loss. There's the ones that decorate their houses with photographs of their loved ones, bringing them up every chance they get. As if they'd never left."
His lips formed a thin line as he looked out at me from under his hat.
"And?"
"And then there's the ones who pack everything in a box and never look back."
~October
BINABASA MO ANG
Hiraeth
PoetryHireath: (n) A homesickness for a home you can't return to, or that never was. For the home I haven't yet returned to. ***************************** A book of poems and the occasional response to writing prompts. Or both. My es...
