Eaten from Inside

The call was over, and the emptiness Biju hoped to dispell was reinforced.
He could not talk to his father; there was nothingleft between them but emergency sentences, clipped telegrams lines shouted out as if in the midst of war. They were no longer relavent in each others lives except for the hope that they would be relavant. He stood with his head still in the phone booth studded with bits of stiff chewing gum and the usual FuckShitockDickPussyLoveWar, swastiks and hearts shot with arrows mingling in a dense graphiti garden, too sugary, too angry, too perverse- the sick sweet rotting of the human heart.
If he continued his life in New York, he might never see his pitaji again. It happened all the time, ten years passed; fifteen, the telegram arrived, or the phone call, the parent was gone and the child was too late. Or they returned and found they'd missed the entire last quarter of a lifetime, their parents like photograph negatives. And there were worst tragedies. After the initial excitement was over, it often became obvious that the love was gone; for affection was only a habit after all, and people, they forgt or they became accustomed to its absence.
They returned and found just the facade, it had been eaten from inside.