You were right next to me
And I didn’t save you.
I was there the day you died.
My arms-- strong, agile,
Stronger even than your own--
Could have kept you from sinking
Under the water: the sea of haze
That I had no idea you were drowning in.
If only I knew.

The day you went away,
Your blood was on my hands.
Hot. Sticky. Sanguine.
Invisible.
But there.
I could have saved you from falling
Into the burning flames of the dark hell
That you now languish in,
That was inevitable for you.
But I didn’t know.

How could I have known?

Could I have saved you?
The question haunts me even now.
It’s been eight long months
And it will be years-- maybe never--
Before the guilt will start to fade
Before this stigma washes off
From my tainted white gloves
Now crimson with your blood.

I could have saved you
If only I had known
That you would die that day.
And the faulty logic of my conscience
Reminds me, sunrise and sunset,
Of a half-truth that blackens my soul:
If it weren’t for me...
If it weren’t for me...
<i> You wouldn’t be in hell. </i>
You wouldn’t be lost in eternal damnation.
But you are.
<i>And it is</i>, whispers my soul,
<i>My fault.</i>
<i>My fault.</i>
<i>My fault.</i>

While the demon in my conscience
Breathes softly into my ear
Three words I dread,
Untrue but not.
A sliver of lies and
A splinter of truth:

<i>You killed him.</i>

Mea culpa.

<i>My fault.</i>