War
Don't.
That's what he said as he brushed a hand across my cheek.
Don't?
I repeated while he turned to walk away for weeks.
He wore his uniform, neatly ironed, looking tough and gallant.
His hair combed under that oddly shaped hat.
All the while, my heart felt a bit bent,
but it's beat grew faster while he walked towards combat.
My blood cold, as was my mind and soul,
and the warm tears slid further down.
Visions of bullets tearing away his life they stole
from me and my smile wiped off by a frown.
Don't.
That's what I heard from him,
the last words that left his mouth before he went to meet his fate.
Sit and sip some coffee with Fate in a little cafe with the lights dim.
Chat a bit about how long I'll wait,
for someone who is never coming back.
And all this guilt from the fight we had last night,
comes charging, ready to attack.
I imagined this moment, since he smiled bright
and said "I'm shipping off to England soon,
We'll be jumpin' out of planes in no time,
And before you know it, I'll be back by June.
Hitler doesn't stand a chance, I betcha twelve dimes."
I smiled and said, "It's a deal", even shook his hand twice.
Twice wasn't enough though because suddenly I was watching him go,
I couldn't let go of his hand; it's warmth too nice.
And thinking about this memory, his pace began to look slow.
He turned around, thank God, he turned around,
he came back faster,
he came back faster as my eyes drowned,
and took my hands, gripped them like a disaster
would take me away and not him.
And he said: "I'm sorry."
But days later, I knew he had been sorry when the letter came.
He was dead, and so was my heart.