It was meant to be breakfast,
To kill the hangover, fix us up.
Then the happy slap came,
A worry, concern, conversed,
Inquired, checked, asked,
He told me you were low,
Images of the ground rising,
Swallowing you whole,
Appeared in my mind.
Common, but surprising.
I know the feeling all too well.

The freight train hit.
Your pain, in all its mental manifestations,
Dreams, longing for more,
For a physical affliction.
An emptiness formed inside me,
Guilt encapsulated me, held me,
That moment, I heard enough,
The detonator had been pulled,
You are too important,
Too vital to this world.