Words Left Unread

I miss you.

I miss you.

I.

Miss.

You.

Dammit, David, you just can’t be gone. Please, don’t be gone. Don’t be gone forever. I knew I blew it big time, and I know our fights were violent and awful, but I still need you, and I hope that maybe deep down, you need me too. I don’t want to believe that you’re gone and that you’ve left me behind. You went through Normandy, and fuck, David, you were in Market Garden, and you didn’t get shot like so many men did in that failed operation.

I know you blamed yourself for not being in Bastogne because you got yourself shot at the crossroads, and I know that you were in that hospital. I know how those hospitals are, I helped you in rehabilitation. I saw you cry when your company was shipped out, I held you while you cried. I know you saw a man, barely eighteen, die in a basement in Germany from wounds that were from his own grenade. I know you watched one of your friends try to kill a man for revenge. I’ve heard it all.

This can’t be the end.

Now you’re lost at sea, maybe dead and I can’t hold you like I should be able to. I need to repay you for all you've given to me. All I have are these journals that you kept in that trunk in the closet, the trunk that has your uniform with your jump wings and purple heart. All I have is this letter that you wrote me before you left in an angry storm, knocking over chairs, spitting angry words at me as I screamed at you to leave and ‘Drop dead, you insufferable bastard!’. The letter that I have yet to read, words to scan over, words that are best left unread.

I love you, David Webster, please don’t be gone forever.