His Sanguine Mark

I struggle to remember you,
on the day you died.
Eleven years ago.

I struggle to remember you.
I only remember that place.
I remember being in your room,
watching the dark spot on the carpet,
the spattering on the wall,
and the smell of it,
where life upended your bucket,
and the last bits of you spilled out.
The faintest smell of gunpowder.

I hoped,
perhaps,
that it would never go away.
That your mark,
red and rusting on the carpet,
would never leave this world.

I figured,
that we are creatures of pain,
you and I,
scraped raw to the nerve,
and you determined to go down that road,
to meet your reaper face-to-face.
I don’t think I possess your courage.

I miss you dearly, old friend.

-o0o-