It makes my heart hurt,
sitting on a cold bench, empty street.
It’s the bleakest November we’ve ever seen,
and I don’t want to mention that I miss you.
It’s been said before,
I haven’t written a thing since you left.
Where did you go?
Are you coming back soon?
We miss you.
I miss you.
If graves could talk, they’d have a lot to say.
You ran into the night with nothing but your wits
and an empty two-six.
The cemetery was tranquil dreaming
of days ahead and the dead to listen
to the dragging feet through the crisp dry grass,
and I will see you again
with a new lust for life.