I can’t write this poem; I wrote it last year.
Wrote one the year before, and the year before so.
Sitting in the garden four eighths ago today
The words are coming up empty, empty and dead.
Four years since that day, the one we dreaded so.
Four times the pain, times the tears,
Times waking up wishing you were here...
But you’re not.
Four eighths of august,
Four eighths that make a half.
Half of me gone -
Half that’s never coming back.
But I’ll try again next year,
Try again to find the words:
To tell you how much I miss you...
How much I’ll always miss you.