I remember fixing your uniform the day you left,
I was fixing your pins and buttons on the day you marched out our door.  
Waving I shut the door and could still feel the imprint of your kiss on my cheek.  
I could still smell your cologne throughout the house.  
Your clothes left, unmoved in our closet.  
Your work shirts fresh and pressed.
The bed was still warm from the night before.
A coffee mug abandoned on the side table, still alive and steaming.
The smell of black coffee infests the room, as I lay myself on your side of our bed.
A deafening silence fills the house, your footsteps not heard.
No wind is blowing, no birds chirping.  Only remorse.  

It’s only been two months since you marched from my life.
Your smell is drying away on the clothesline,
Your gentle spirit floating beside me unnoticed.
Our bed sheet clean and still holds your cigarette burn.
Pinning up the pillowcases that your head once lay on.
A dark figure covers me, a blanket of darkness.
A man in uniform without your face or body is over top of me, looking down at me.
In his arms is a flag, folded and pressed with your pins laying on top.
Bowing he holds out the letter, poison.
His face pain stricken I fall in silence, no tears, and no sounds as the envelope falls at my knees.
I fell to pieces when I got that letter, a million thoughts smashing me to smithereens.
I will never hold your hand again or feel your kisses on my cheek.
I will never hold you close at night while you lay sleeping sound.
My sheets will no longer hold your smell, and no new cigarette burns will appear.
There was no goodbye, no last embrace.

I died the day I got that letter.  
You died six months ago and I cannot grieve.
Your clothes are moth eaten and withering away, barely hanging on.
Your coffee no longer there, only the ring on the table for a memory.
Your wife still here a broken shell, never to mend.
I died the day I got that letter, on the battlefield with you.