He Went To War


He went to war, and I stayed right here.
We went from rolling, giddy in the daisy glittered grass -
from wandering streets in a golden daze -
from hand in hand, eye to eye, seeing through and beyond -
from being seen and understood. To having oceans of distance between our two bodies -
stiff at two ends of a coffee-stained table.
He went to war, and I lay down on my bed - and I let him go.

When the battle raged, I lay down on my bed.
My shattered organs pulsing, drowning out the voices of sanity, of reason -
and hearing only doubt. As the bombs rained -
as the homes, now broken, were pillaged -
I cried for my own wounds.
And while he was at war, I was left alone.

When the hero came back
battle-scarred, and changed - I cried for his wounds.
But even hand in hand, eye to eye - what time had stolen
was all there was to see - and I cried for my own wounds.
Had he gone to war, knowing he would not return?

When the dust settled, the village quiet -
he said I did not understand all that he had seen.
That his wounds went deeper - concealed.
I cried for us both - but he did not cry for me.
For he went to war, and I stayed right here.

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