The Writers Voice
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You died on a cold December morning
just before Christmas.
You knew what was happening,
and you knew it would happen soon;
You always knew everything,
and tried to tell me but
I didnít; couldnít believe you
I didnít want to listen
I didnít want it to be there.
I remember the frost on the front lawn that morning,
Sparkling and icy;
with the postmanís footprints running across it.
Later on there would be other footprints;
>From when they carried you out to the ambulance -
but you were long gone by then.
Death didnít suit you-
It was too cold,
If youíd been here you
would have laughed at it;
Told it to stop being so dramatic,
And go away.
I wish you could have stayed just
a little bit longer.
I still have your Christmas present,
all wrapped up in coloured ribbons
which I knew you would have loved.
I canít open it now.
Itís still where I hid it three weeks ago,
And if I leave it there a little bit longer,
maybe youíll come looking for it
And find me instead.
I miss you more every day;
It doesnít get easier and the loss doesnít fade.
The house gets emptier,
as if every night one more thing is taken away -
fallen into a big black hole
Because thereís no reason for it to stay now,
Not now that youíre gone.
I wish Iíd told you how much I love you;
Wish I could somehow let you know-
Let you know that
the worldís a little colder now youíre gone;
the windís a little sharper
And the soft whisper of the night has gone;
Lifeís a little poorer without you.
And so I go on now,
somehow, without you holding my hand.
With a head full of memories that come alive at night
when I'm asleep and canít quite reach you.
But hidden in that dark corner,
The coloured ribbons remain
Which, Iíve come to see,
youíll never find.
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