Every morning, I get up and think the sunrise might be beautiful. He’s looking at me and I know it’s not. Every night, I go to bed, thinking I may get some rest, but he’s looking at me and I know I won’t. The seasons may still exist, celebrations of life, but I don’t know, because he’s looking at me. Was that a joke you told? I can’t laugh, because he’s looking at me. With those gray, broken eyes saying, I loved you once. Maybe like a son. Why are you doing this to me? Why are you hurting me, Fielding?
