Weeds and Flowers by Tess Rauscher
it’s not your fault
that he’s not here.
it’s not your fault
that his seat remains
empty, cold;
that his dream
of a far off city
with bright lights,
now lays
unattended.
it’s not your fault,
there’s nothing you could
have done.
it’s not your fault
that his calls
were never answered.
it’s not your fault,
that you decided
he wasn’t good enough,
it’s not your fault,
that you were caught up
with your own demons,
and forgot he had his own.
it’s not your fault,
there’s nothing you could
have done.
it’s not your fault
that you were there,
then weren’t.
it’s not your fault
that you floated,
and he sank.
it’s not your fault,
that you felt
a caressing breeze,
while he coughed
up stale dirt.
it’s not your fault,
that his skin never
wrinkled,
that his hair never
grayed,
that he never received
a high school diploma.
it’s not your fault,
that his family dropped
to their knees,
that they can’t use
that bathroom anymore.
it’s not your fault,
that his bedroom is
a war zone of memories,
that his name,
is now coated in irony.
it’s not your fault,
there’s nothing you could
have done.
it’s not your fault
that now bowties decorate
his gravestone
instead of his neck
it’s not your fault,
that weeds and flowers
now entwine his bones,
like his hands once
entwined yours.
it’s not your fault
that on the morning
of new beginnings,
he decided he didn’t want one.
it’s not your fault.
there’s nothing any of us
could have
done.