Dead.
That’s what you are now.
A terrible fact I can’t change.
You were so vibrant.
You made me feel more than what I am.
Now you’re a pile of ash,
In a tiny wooden box I can’t bear to look at.
I feel your loss constantly,
Like an itch I can’t scratch,
I lay awake in regret,
For being too selfish to see the signs.
© 2017
Nic Baker Writes 