the voice comes to me 
as a phantom in a dream. 

as i write 
the voice channels 
from him to me. 

laughter vanishes 
to staring at the sea, 
to the house 
that no longer carries 
his childhood dreams. 

vacanies searching for occupation 
from passing through stations 
to platforms holding onto memories, 
all of it comes to me. 

in my internal screenplay, 
is he the playwright 
or the main lead? 

the nature of it, 
all of my opposites: 
bruting arrogance 
or brilliant confidence. 

is my empathy a curse 
or is this a curated character chiseled in verse?