When you're Eleven years old,
You always think you'll leave that hospital room.
The night before when your dad was so delirious from the doctors screwing his meds;
The night where he couldn't move,
Couldn't even recognise you.
That night is irrelevant when you know you'll be going home soon.
When you're Eleven years old you know people die but you never think it will be your parents.
When you're Eleven years old you don't know to say goodbye.
Not the night before when you didn't know me
And not the day of when the tubes were already more of your body then the rest of you.
When you're Eleven years old you don't know sometimes people can hear you in a coma.
It just sounds like something adults say to trick you.
And your dad is coming home so why should it matter.
When you're Eleven years old you learn to hate the colour yellow.
Because the flatline is the last thing you see before they tell you to leave the room.
You still don't know you missed your goodbye.
But when you're 23 you KNOW what goodbye means.
And when he gets in his car and drives off without a word you're Eleven years old again.
Except this time you know your dad never made it home from the hospital.
And you know that goodbyes are always important
because you never get them again.
Yellows is still your least favourite colour but this time it's the glow of your headlights driving past the spare bedroom window.
When you're Eleven years old you still have hope.
But when you're an adult you just learn what to expect.
I'll never get your goodbye again; so here's mine.
I love you,
Goodbye.
C.G.
YOU ARE READING
No one is there
Poetrypoetry book. all the things I've written that I could never say out loud. Some topics may be difficult for some people so check for disclaimers .
