I Kept Waiting for You to Come Back

I was six years old

when I had to leave home and leave you

for a distant place.

I didn't know much about love or loss.

Memory was still an ambiguous word.

I was eight years old.

Distance still separated

me from you.

I knew I could bridge the gap.

Time crept by.

Something wider than distance took you away

yet, I still had faith in you.

Maybe no one else did.

My trust never wavered.

I kept trying to build the bridge

unaware it had collapsed 

right under my feet.

My mother told me to say goodbye

but I was adamant.

I was told you had left for good.

I knew that you, for good itself, would return.

I kept waiting for you to come back.

I was twelve years old.

It had been quite a while since I had returned home.

I didn't know if it was home.

You were still away.

I kept waiting for you to come back.

I was fifteen years old,

long since mature enough to understand.

I grasped at my power of comprehension.

I knew you weren't coming back.

I knew you had a problem.

I knew you were given a chance.

I knew you threw it away.

I knew you couldn't help it.

Was I yet waiting for you to come back?

I am seventeen years old.

I know you aren't coming back.

I know you're in a better place.

I know that you're eternal.

I've stopped waiting for you to come back.

I do wish you had one more chance.

I wish they had pushed you harder.

I've moved forward.

Memory is now the strongest word I know.