Emily

Today, you said something casually
over your shoulder. I couldn't quite
hear it, because you were walking away,
but I smiled and nodded and laughed 
anyway. I wish I knew what you said. 

Today, you walked away, facing
straight forward, away from me, away
from everything familiar. Not once 
did your head turn back, but still I stared
after you. I wish I could have seen your eyes. 

Today, you moved away. Packed up and 
left, left me, left everything familiar. 
I drove by your house. The windows 
were empty, your car gone. It was strange, 
seeing the house echo with creaks instead 
of your laughter. I wish you hadn't left. 

Today, I heard you took too many pills, 
washed them down with your favorite drink,
and the ambulance was five minutes too late. 
I was told nothing could have been done. I
wept and I ached and I wish I had known 
what you said that day.