more of me than me

at first
I would
just sit
hoping
the chair
would curl
around me
and I
would remember
what it
used to
feel like
sitting here
all those
years before
the war

the way 
it felt
to rock
my children
or nurse
a whiskey
to kiss
my wife
this chair
was my
favorite
place in
the universe

my Zen garden
mountain peak
happy place
my deep
inhale my
sense of calm
all gone
now beneath
a cloud
of memories
of sand
and smoke
from burning
human waste
and bloody
hospital sheets
of missing limbs
and babies cries
of burning flesh
and mortar shells
IED's and 
rifle shots
chopper blades
and the
stink of bleach

everything
my senses 
absorbed and
brought home
and no
amount of
therapy or
medication
has been
able to
help me
let it go
to un hear
or un smell
or unwind
as I
sit in
this chair
that now
holds more
of me
than I do