Memories of the herb garden lover

This is to the memory of your beautiful green eyes.

Flashing with every smile I was lucky enough to witness,

reflecting the flames of every fire that danced before us.

This is to the memory of every broken dish flung at the wall in anger,

in frustration caused by your inability to just tell me the truth.

To trust me with matters that we should have dealt with together.

Frustration with the way I should have understood you more.

Made the effort to listen to you rather than just assuming that I could fix everything with tips and tricks that a therapist showed me.

A woman who had no idea what the hell she was talking about.

How can someone tell you how to deal with loss?

With pain.

With being the punching bag to everyone who claims to love you.

When they've never gone through it.

There is only so much you can read in a textbook.

This is to all the gashes and rivers I stopped from overflowing.

The messes you made that I dutifully cleaned up.

All the lonely nights spent holding your shaking form safely in my arms.

Knowing that with every passing second you became farther and farther away from me.

Despite the damp heat of your trembling breath on my neck reminding me that you are,

at least for the moment,

physically close to me.

Alive.

My dear friend,

my beautiful lover,

this is to you.

And how much I wish I could have stopped the world from crashing down around you.

How I wished I could have taken every cell of life and slipped it back into your torn, mutilated veins.

I would have thrown away that deadly sliver of metal,

thrown it farther than the mountains surrounding the kingdoms we created in the mud of our backyards.

I’d have lifted you up into my arms and shown you just how beautiful I always knew you were.

I’d have shown you just how much I loved you.

But now you lie among the decomposing flesh of those we don’t know.

Those we no longer remember.

I couldn’t save you.

I don't think anyone could have.