I always count with my fingers all the years you've been gone.
Now I realize I am getting short handed
I need more than both of my hands.
Everyone tells me you are never going to come back.
I know it in myself but I will keep on waiting.
All those letters you have made for me I still read.
I know every word and punctuation you have written.
My sole picture of you have slowly faded through time
But never will my love.
I still remember in my mouth the taste of your lips as you bade me farewell.
I still remember what your hands felt as you caressed my cheeks and sweetly said;
“I will come running back home to you, I promise."
But you never did, didn't you?
Why must our love also be a casualty of the war?