My Dearest,

You’re gone. You’re growing. You’re throwing away your-No. You’re fighting for this nation.

You’re training in twenty-degree weather all for nothing but the old lie.

You have a rifle, you’re skilled with it. And it turns into murder.

It’s someone’s child or sibling or lover or wife or me.

Selfishly, what happens if it’s me? And you’re lying dead somewhere I do not know yet?

But you remind me that it’s just the basics. No one is dying.

Yet.

You talk to me every Sunday when you get the chance.

And I’m in a course talking about anti-war stories.

I’m reminded that it could be someone’s child or sibling or lover. I’m not focused on me this time.

You’ll be killing someone who will be grieving.

But no one is dying yet.

You’re still a boy with nothing but the old lie.

And I wonder how someone like you would want to do this.

After a week, maybe I do not know you well enough yet.

But your letters say otherwise. You aren’t happy.

Are you just missing me or are you disappearing all the same?

You’re fighting for this-No. You’re throwing away your life.