She Died
She died on me this summer.
I tried to get to her in time
to say goodbye but I was
held
by a father
too ill.
She died on me this summer.
I had so many plans for us,
things to do, places to
go . . . together
in my eternal effort to get those things
I needed from her.
She died on me this summer
and betrayed me with the simple act
of not taking another
breath,
never saying "I love you,"
with conviction.
She died on me this summer.
I weep for what we never had,
the anguish that we suffered
through,
the pain inflicted, each upon
the other.
She died on me this summer.
Never will there be an opportunity
to heal the wounds
created by her
jealousy. To bridge the chasm
so sadly felt.
She died on me this summer.
With clenched fists, compressed lips,
and furrowed brow.
Not even death
could spread it's peace upon the agony
of her soul.
She died on me this summer.
Left me with an empty place
that no amount of spending,
or eating,
can fill.
She died on me this summer.
My Mother.
