How dear you were to me,
Teaching me the pain of loss.
But the guilt that I feel for you,
It kills me.
I blame myself for your death,
Even though you were the idiot.
Too curious,
Too frisky,
Too distracted,
Too stupid.
But I didn't save you.
And I could've.
I would've.
I should've.
I should have said something.
I always tried to be there for you,
But all I can remember are the ugly
times,
Replaying in my head.
I feel as if I murdered you.
They said that you went quickly.
That after so much pain,
You breathed a sigh,
And died,
Right there.
A life taken.
Gone.
If souls exist I hope yours found its way.
For I caused your short life.
Oh, my dear,
If only you understood,
My dear,
My darling,
Josie
In loving memory of Josie. And in loving memory of all those like Josie, and in recognition and understanding for those like me. It's not your fault.
YOU ARE READING
If
PoetryIt's a poetry book. For poetry. Edgar Allen Poe-etry. (These poems have nothing to do with Edgar Allen Poe. I saw the pun and I made it.)
