I didn’t know you before I lost you.
Didn’t get to hold your little hand. Or see your first smile. But I think of you
every day since I lost you.
I think of how you look like your mother. I think of how I last you. How I
first saw you. I still live in the house where I lost you.
I feel cold snowflakes on my collar where you would have drooled. It’s May
and only raining. I would be cradling you to sleep right now if I hadn’t lost
Life has gone on in the house where I lost you.
I go to work. The same job I hid to cry after I lost you.
I see the very spot where I lost you.
The paramedics. The blanket. The blanket where I lost you.
Everyday I lose you.
There are shows I won’t watch because I was watching them before I lost
I hate myself. I hate them. For not knowing I was losing you.
It’s been very hard to live where I lost you.
We’re looking for a new home. Maybe I’ll feel better not always looking
where I lost you.
Always passing where I lost you.
Or maybe I’ll look back one last time and not want to leave you where I lost
It’s just so hard to live where I lost you.
Jason Huff drives trucks for a living in central Illinois. At the age of 14, three of his poems were published in a college literary magazine. He writes on occasion, sketches on occasion, and is a paranormal investigator with his wife.