instagram arrow-down

Recent Posts

Recent Comments

Archives

Categories

To Live Where I Lost You

I didn’t know you before I lost you.

Didn’t get to hold your little hand. Or see your first smile. But I think of you
every day since I lost you.

I think of how you look like your mother. I think of how I last you. How I
first saw you. I still live in the house where I lost you.

I feel cold snowflakes on my collar where you would have drooled. It’s May
and only raining. I would be cradling you to sleep right now if I hadn’t lost
you.

Life has gone on in the house where I lost you.

I go to work. The same job I hid to cry after I lost you.

I see the very spot where I lost you.

The paramedics. The blanket. The blanket where I lost you.

Everyday I lose you.

There are shows I won’t watch because I was watching them before I lost
you.

I hate myself. I hate them. For not knowing I was losing you.

It’s been very hard to live where I lost you.

We’re looking for a new home. Maybe I’ll feel better not always looking
where I lost you.

Always passing where I lost you.

Or maybe I’ll look back one last time and not want to leave you where I lost
you.

It’s just so hard to live where I lost you.

Jason Huff drives trucks for a living in central Illinois. At the age of 14, three of his poems were published in a college literary magazine. He writes on occasion, sketches on occasion, and is a paranormal investigator with his wife.

Leave a Reply
Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

*

*