#redaction

And none of it matters. Cause when they bring your body home, he’ll have to look your wife in the eyes, hand her the flag at your funeral, and pretend he didn’t love you more than she ever could. He wishes he could

Fucking die and then, maybe he’d finally get a chance. Just one more moment of stolen glances, shared cigarettes and bottles of whiskey,  smiles printed on paper, pressed into pages between the letters of the holy word, that would say you were a sinner for loving each other.  It was always borrowed time. He should’ve known, logically. Maybe if he was a stronger man with a colder heart. 

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As you lose consciousness, you’ll shake and tremble. As you try to rasp out your dying words, your best friend will wish the two of you could’ve ever been something more. He would’ve done anything to have you. But nobody could bring themselves to take that first shot. Not even when one pierced through your chest.  Even here in the trenches, as gunfire rains down on the company. As your heart slows to a stop and his hammers faster and faster.  Even now, he can’t bring himself to whisper out the words. (“I love you. I always have.”) As your dead body goes limp in his arms. He’s praying, screaming out to the skies, begging god for one more chance