Recovery

This isn't
a poem about you.
I can't write about you anymore.
You're gone,
even our memories aren't
that clear now.

I forgot about how you smell.
I forgot about how you laugh.
I forgot the way you give
each household item a name.
I barely remember our
conversations.
You left,
you selfishly, recklessly left.
You left me with a long
list of meds to take
every twelve hours.
So this poem isn't about you.

My therapy sessions will
not start with how much progress
I made getting over your death.
I will not
wish you were here
to witness my success.

I will let you go,
because you chose to go.
You chose to be
your homeland's war hero,
and my biggest
disappointment.