5-29 19

It would be easier if you were 18,
and I was 19,
and I didn't have to navigate
a path,
through the minefields you built,
so carefully over the years.

It would be easier.

I can't see like I used to,
and now my hands are starting to bleed,
as I search for breaks along the barbed wire,
I have to wonder should I stop looking?

Behind me, are fields of star thistle,
and dried out sunflower stalks,
Did I plant them or did you?
Or did he?

Wind brings the empty hollow of dirt,
dry, crumbling,
an august in the valley,

the paling blue sky,
brings rain,
I need it to wash my hands,
I need it,
like
for those brief few seconds,
I needed to know you were there,
those were my seconds,
those were mine,
and I regret not telling you,
but it didn't seem to matter,
and now...

Why am I here? In this field?
Just tell me.
Please.
I'm not 19 anymore.