Not Coming Home
I sit alone lost in a daydream
waiting for him to come home.
Hoping that my excitement isn't noticeable,
like a pink flower in a field of white.
The sun turns to stars
but I still sit and wait.
Frozen in time,
watching for that doorknob to turn.
A news story comes across the television.
Out of the blur the words appear,
“The war is over!”,
or so it seems.
These memories come into focus
getting clearer and clearer.
And then I realize the truth.
I drag myself out of my fairytale.
I wish it weren't true, but he's not coming home.
Though it's over, he's already been killed.
Once again, I fight back the tears,
fake a smile, turn to the empty house,
and try to make it a home.
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