I woke up today,
and forgot you weren't there.
I ran my hand over your pillow,
and then laid there and stared.

I finally sat up,
and wiped away tears.
Listening to the silence,
of two lonely years.

No children laughing,
or the running of feet.
No "daddy you're up",
no "good morning my sweet".

The only sound is the avalanche,
happening in my head,
of memories so clear,
and of things that you said.

"I never loved you",
is still by far the worst,
and I hear it every morning,
before my head fills to burst.

"Time will heal all",
I shakily say,
and clutch at my sanity,
and prepare for the day.

"I only stayed because I was pregnant",
as I put on my shoes.
As I reach for my keys,
"I didn't want to be a single mom of two".

I put my keys down,
and sit down in my chair.
Listening to the voices,
and whispering, "it just isn't fair".

"I never loved you",
hits me again like a glove.
Seven long years,
you couldn't find one thing to love?

I walk to the cabinet,
and pour me a drink.
I have to have something,
that will help me not think.

My chest is on fire,
but the voices fade away.
I whisper "time will heal all",
but nothing's healing today.

Perhaps tomorrow,
I'll remember you're gone.
And the voices will be silent,
and I can move on.