I walked around your garden at the back of your house, seeing all the pretty things you had discarded on the path.
I see you gently swinging on the faux stone bench, your parents of strange oath.
Your hair flutters in the wind and your face cracks as a tear rolls down your cheek.
I’m just a ghost in your past, drowning in all the things I should have said. Man the meek.
D April 2017