Leaves
While SPC Santos
was busy dying by IED in Kandahar, somewhere in California, his dog patiently
waited.
She ate her
fries slowly, with no hurry, savoring every bite. As of today, she had nobody
to go home to.
The plane dove.
Capt. Evander struggled with all his might. He had to save the passengers. The
nurse gave him his medicine.
She always slept
with his blackened shirt.
The soldier
waddled through the limbs of his comrades, pools of blood embedding red onto
his skin. He felt nothing.
He woke up
asking himself what is the point of dreaming.
She posted a
status on Facebook. He liked it and made a comment on it. She deleted it. He
opened a bottle of pills.
He looked at
himself in the mirror. He wished he still had the beard. She had liked the
beard. He hated the beard.
Her finger lay on the bottom of a frozen lake.
Tom threw away
his bologna sandwich. He hated bologna sandwich. Hank had dinner.
He saw what she
had written and his world came tumbling down. She never knew. She had never met
him.
As he cried in
frustration, she threw it.
I walked ever so
softly towards her and bowed.
(2013)
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