The Damned Old Truth

Sometimes I like to sit and listen

To the last voice-mail he ever sent me.

But every time I hear his voice

I feel like my heart is being ripped out.

Like a whirlwind of memories,

My world starts spinning until I am lost.

Hearing his voice is like peering

Behind a curtain that cannot be moved.

It stands between me and the things

That have long been taken away from me.

And sometimes I like to pretend

That he will come back to me someday, soon.

It’ll be like he never left–

He was just playing a game of hide-and-seek.

I hadn’t looked quite hard enough–

But he’s there, hiding behind that curtain.

Then Mom’s voice finds me through the house,

And all at once I feel like I’ll be sick.

Her voice brings me crashing right back

To the cold gut-feeling I know is loss.

Because the truth, the damned old truth,

Is that he’s never coming back to me.

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