Six Months.

I have dreaded this entry.
It has loomed on the horizon
like a wounded B-17;
ablaze and smoking,
retching it's way towards
a lush green airfield
in the English countryside,
after the night raids on Dresden.

I have dreaded this entry.
It is the touchstone
composed of broken glass,
rusty barbed wire,
and tears.

I have dreaded this entry.
It is the sad, tawdry cross
on the side of a long rural road.
It is the mile marker
of a lonely and unnecessary death.

I have dreaded this entry.

It is...

It is...

It is, and must be.

Six months.

It is the punch in the throat;
that leaves you gasping for breath,
and searching for voice.

It is the punch in the stomach;
that leaves you doubled over,
and dropped to bloodied knees.

It is the kick in the shin,
of sweethearts on the playground.

It is...

It has been...

Six months.

For six months
I have lived in exile.
For six months
I have tracked the rise and fall,
of the stars,
over the black water that keeps me from you.
For six months
I have sat quietly
on the edge of night,
planning my escape and return.

And now,
it seems that there is nothing
to escape from,
or return to.

I pondered bringing down
the big Oak out back.
If felled, would it reach
across the water?
Would it touch the other side?
Could I balance along it's trunk,
and unravel the maze of its branches;
and find my way across Old Road Bay,
to the shore,
and the lights,
that would guide me home?

I pondered bringing down
the big Oak out back.
It was not tall enough
to be a bridge.
But, could I deconstruct her?
Was there enough there,
to build a boat?
Or even a crude raft?
Could I be sure
that the pitch and rusty nails
at my disposal,
would carry me to safe harbor
onto the other side?

I pondered bringing down
the big Oak out back.
But no matter how hard
I wished it to be
a bridge,
or a boat,
it was just a tree.
A very old, quiet soul;
that stands on the edge
of the black water;
and keeps watch
of the rise and fall
of the stars
as they make their way
across a universe
of sad.

I am not one
to destroy beautiful things,
so that I may find my happiness.

I am not one
to erase history,
so that I might start again.

I am not one
who forgets and just moves on.
I am willing to let go,
but I will never forget.

Tonight,
I sit beneath the big Oak out back.
My telescope should be pointed to the stars,
I should be making notes and calculations.
Instead,
tonight,
it is pointed across Old Road Bay;
towards the glow of the city,
beyond the black water
that keeps me from you.

Instead of bringing the old Oak down,
I have embraced it's cause.
We stand vigil together.
We lean into the wind,
and dig deeper
into this tear soaked
patch of soil
that we now, and will,
call home.

One night,
when the winters cold edge has passed,
I will climb
the big old Oak out back.
From high in its embrace,
I will point my telescope
out across the black water,
towards the muted glow of the city
on the other side.

Maybe then,
I will be able to see,
just why you left me here.

I have dreaded this entry.
Six months.