Today my mind is filled with the smell of
the burnt oak tree on
cranberry road.
The earth around the tree has regrown it's grass
and the dirt no longer smells like
melted metal and plastic.
The air no longer smells like smoke,
yet all my nose smells is the aroma of
burnt flesh.
Of blood and seat leather.
The fire still burns my skin when I think about it.
There's an empty hole in my heart
that he left when he flew through the stars and back
over the moon.