“I wrote my son a letter”

I wrote my son a letter
It hurt to write it 
on my self

But he is gone,
and I have to feel
the losing of him.

Each word has to cost;
tears are cheap.
The words had to go deeper.

How would he know otherwise
how much he had hurt me
how much I had hurt him.

Pieces of silver, a pound of flesh.
The cost of a life; the cost of a death.

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