Somewhere in the meadow where we once played,
There are stories that I chose to erase.
Things that were once pleasant and joyous are now tainted.
Too much sorrow and pain from the horrific way it was painted.
Lost lives, lost causes, and lost wars;
Bodies eventually covered up the flowers you adored.
The sunsets that were watched with our legs crossed,
Each pretty pink and brilliant blue memory was blotted out.
They were forced into the recesses of my mind by the bloodcurdling shouts.
A home that I cherished turned into a home that nearly perished,
And it really isn’t a home without you here to sing with me,
It isn’t a home without you to laugh and dance around merrily.
The stories that they tell of me – they will be ones of courage and triumph!
But the only stories that I will remember will be of the ones that I loved – the ones left for dead.
The joy that they see here – I can’t get it wrapped around my head.
The idea doesn’t stick because at the end of the day I’m sickened.
I am sickened by your absence.
I am sickened without your touch.
My nights have become relentless.
My life doesn’t amount to much.
I wish to play with you one last time.
I wish that I could have one last night.
I wish someone had told me that the last look of your face I would get,
Would be one filled with concern, focus, and regret,
So that maybe I could have called out your name…
So that maybe I could have brought one last smile to your face…
And that’s why I don’t go to the meadow where we used to play.
Those are stories of happiness that I’ll never attain.
Those are the good times that I can never have again…
So today I am writing them on a piece of paper that I’ll through in the waste bin.
Remembering one last time so that I can forget.