You spoke instead of listening,
to tell me he wasn’t going to live through the night.
Dying, like the bright yellow flowers in the vase
beside your ice cold hand.
On the television they always say I’m Sorry.
I remember thinking you should say it too,
and how I despise yellow,
with all it’s false cheer.
I couldn’t go to him because my neck was broken
cracked like a dry reed
is what you said.
Well what about my heart?
What year was it? What was my name?
You demanded answers and
I didn’t no, I couldn’t care.
Not about you. Not me. Not then.
Those hours stretched into days.
He didn’t die.
He’s here with me now,
as alive as the night he came screaming
from his mother’s womb.
You should have said I’m sorry,
You should have meant the words.
I can still taste the blood when I see the bright yellow flowers.
