I can't help but wonder
How he used to cry.
Did he wail at the top of his lungs?
Or did he silently weep?
I can't help but think
About what he called his parents.
Mother? Father? Jane and John?
Or some sickly sweet pet name?
These thoughts fill my mind
Along with his contagious laugh.
His smile, his eyes,
His dying breath, soft, broken.
I plead for them to leave
Go, get out while they still can.
Before I explode, as he did,
Into undefined pieces of flesh.
I never knew him,
The man he wouldn't grow up to be.
So why is it that he had to leave
And leave his image with me?
Be at peace,
That is all I want,
Just do it without my help.
Without the added pain.