I watched her wither away,
Her feet swollen and her hair a cloud.
Her skin draping around her fragile body like a shawl.
But her eyes always stayed the same,
Full of content.
Behind the thickening glass.

I watched them ease her into a walker,
And into a home.
They handed her the pills,
Handfuls of life.
Though pill by pill it seemed to escape her.

I watched her while she cried,
She cried for death.
And for her other half.
Her will to survive slowly diminishing.

I watched her as she kissed my cheeks,
And told me she loved me.
She filled with life and happiness.
Her eyes were suddenly hers,
*Content

Maybe we all have a story to tell.
Of a ruined love affair.
The powder on your Dad's hands.
Your Mother's luke-warm beer and smile.

And please don't bother to tell me.
I'll just nod my head.

So believe in what you can't see,
And don't cry to me.
When the bottle sits in your hands
And the company is caked in coke.
And you can't wish it away,
Or blame them.

The pattern on the cigarette burned rug is fading fast,
As are your excuses.

And I'm just shaking my head.

I can't help but wonder,
If I said yes that night, and we went to the movies.
If I allowed myself to fall hopelessly in love with you.
    As I always intended to do, though time didn't allow it.
Would I be bearing the camo scarf?
The one proving your death,
Ironically wrapped around your mothers and sisters necks?
Or would this situation be completely altered?
Rather than feeling the cold pew beneath me.
Would I feel the carpet beneath my heeled feet?
Replacing tears of sorrow flowing down my cheeks with the tears of passion.
If I allowed your palm to be placed into mine for longer than the haunted house lasted,
Would time have changed?
Would you be kissing my fingers rather than watching me peck away at this board?
If only I knew:
I wouldn't have the chance to tell you how much you meant.
I would be broken by this death.
I would never kiss your cheek again.
If only I knew how much I would miss you.
But instead, I sat in the back of the church.
Silently starving for your infectious smile.
Praying I believed in God, so one day I could see you.
Wanting to scream the one thing you loved to say,
More than the Lords Prayer.
*"You are the best, Be happy because I hate when you are sad; I love you."

She grips His hands.
Begging Him to remember her face.
The Man sways
Those nights together float into the night.
As soft and intimate as the way He felt her.
She rocks Him back as He stares blankly.
Eyes like a small child's,
Innocent but aged.
She chants to the Man.
   A ghost within.
Suddenly His eyes fill with light.
   As an infant's do, the day the seize to cross.
Tears weld and He cannot remember why.
But joy is here, and love is here.

This Man feels loves beauty,
Though this Man sits alone, His brain diminishing.

Between my lashes I see Death.
I feel It suspended above me, masking my eyes.
The iced winter air won't be the only to take lives.
    I have no excuse.
They scream, but who is to help them?
"Blessed are those who Mourn, for they shall be Comforted"
    But who truly feels the Lords warm embrace?
    Who truly feels saved?
For those who starve, are pushed out of our minds.
    The holiday season would be ruined with the grip of Death.
Those who weep, receive no shoulders.
    But are ignored, who has the time?
We scream to the clouds, begging an answer.
A sign,
Anything to prove we aren't wasting our time.
But those who starve, still starve.
Those who weep, still feel the warm tears.
     And we have no excuse.
Again we beg and plead to our "Merciful Lord"
    But who hears an answer?
Mary's bleeding Hands and Feet?
We bare false witness to hide our fear.
    So if He wont Comfort the Mourning,
   Should we do it ourselves?

              *Does anyone feel saved?

I have forgotten my Grandfathers face,
Crinkled eyes and sour drops.
Would He forgive me if He knew?
This thought invades my mind.
Sinks into my veins.
Nips at my nerves.
Will I be as forgotten as my Grandfather?
Will no one remember my candies?
My eyes.
Will there be no one to remember me?
Would I forgive myself if I knew?
   *That I hadn't lived enough to be remembered.

Your love was so young
But the heartache is as old as time.
     Everlasting in her mind.
The photographs that littered the floor tell her story,
     The ones covered in tears.
One that I never knew existed outside of a pink castle.
   A Knight scribbled poems behind the teachers back,
    And a Princess reached for them between classes.
Could love be so violently torn through years of stretching?
A love who bore a child, such as myself?
Evidently.
This tragedy gives me little hope.
How can I love when the ones I look to for love cannot?