Born of two; raised by four.
I guess I took it all for granted, and only three remain.
Even though you’re wounded, I know that you’re still here.
I don’t blame you, you just can’t face the change.
We spend our golden years as living ghosts.
Caught in a constant state of purgatory.
We are only burdened by our memories until the day they cease to exist, and we follow shortly after.
Although I wonder if at any time, our minds fell upon the same plane.
I know they did, I just wish I had a chance to go back and appreciate it.
But we’ll always have the winter, and the snow that got trapped behind the glass.
You may be only a shell of the man that you used to be, but I love you just the same, and I will until the day you’re gone.
I just never know if I’m communicating with you or the disease.
And even though I curse the idea of an afterlife, I still hope you’re taken care of.
You deserve to be at peace.
Please don’t forget my face.
I won’t forget to remember you.