Painkillers and alcohol console your wellbeing. Gibberish you carve out of words previously spoken. Days transfix themselves into delusional outbursts that continue haunting your nights.
My presence doesn’t delight you the way your rocking chair does. Instrumental music leaves you weeping. Makes you recoil into the shell of a man you’ve become.
I understand why your questions cannot pull the answers you crave from my voice. Why as we’ve aged you live in the past, not the present.
Why you look at a tree only to remember as you witnessed it in the war you experienced, still burning in your mind.
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