The Memory of Him

August 8, 2009
His beard touches my forehead.
I can hear his heartbeat.
I lay in his big arms,
by the furnace heat.

The trips
on the endless road of each state.
The bickering and yelling,
portraying fake hate.

The coffee that sat,
on the table by the chair.
the trains and collectables,
sitting around without a care.

The tree
where he sat to hunt deer.
The cabin in the woods,
where he took away any fear.

His beard does not touch my forehead.
His heartbeat is no more.
His big arms aren't there.
I find myself curled up on the floor.

Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback