I don’t usually do this, but here goes. This is a poem… a poem I wrote for you.

The sorrow.
The regret.
The needless suffering.

Oh!
Why must it have been
This Way?

The minutes and hours.
The hours—no! the days.

Days that cannot be undone,
All that is left is their aroma.

If only I had not forgotten
About you.

Forgotten.

Forgotten.

Putrid.

Lost behind the microwave —
My green bean casserole.