Five years and I did not learn one day,
never understood the hours that passed
or the minutes that dragged at the end.
Time had never been such a holder til we
had so little, so few turns of hands to hold,
each tick a slap on our watched faces.

If we had found your killer, named it,
Discovered where it lived and what it ate,
Maybe then the sympathy looks would anger.
Doctors would have been police, taking notes,
dusting for prints and narrowing the search
so a line up would take over that damn IV.

Maybe your face would have been front page,
a catchy headline to provoke your tormentors
into coming forward, being caught, just being.
Your name would be known, remembered,
by hundreds instead of the handful left here,
and your life would be news and not obit.

But ifs, maybes, coulda's - Makes us dreamers right?
My dreams are nightmared, sweats to wake me
instead of the softness of your breathing sleep.
No one hunts for your killer or gives be a blame-sake
to place all of this weight on, to crush, to expel
all of the hate I have for something I cannot grip.

I walk around looking for clues but its passed,
all the clocks tell me so, and there is no Columbo
to force any confessions, only me to hear nothing.
So here I sit and stare and hate this miscarriage
of justice, victimised by nothing I can punish,
and all I want is to scream you back to life again.

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