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 didn’t 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.