Part One

Why couldn't I cry
When you were near me,
could hold me, touch me,
and console me?

Why couldn't you tell
me you were staying,
or even crying
too, and loved me?

Why will I worry
and pray your return
be quick and painless,
but mostly quick?

Why do I know that
tommorrow without
you is just a day;
to me it's not.

To me it's another tear
To me, another hot day
or chilling night.
It's hours of shock;
painful and lasting.

Your brightest light
has shined upon me,
and it seems a
moonless night is
still the only alternative.

It seems you've left,
save the memories
and your voice.
It seems too much
to handle for one lonely
man on such a hard
and lonely night.
 

Girl, the days will be long,
as will the roads.
The nights will be cold
No matter the temperature.
Enduring tears will corrode
the strongest boulders
and the most metallic dreams.

Part Two

In my courage,
foolish courage,
I've been told it's
Only eight days.
Merely eight days,
and that time will
be fun for you,
and me.

I listened,
I convinced myself
of the noble
and seeming intelligence
in such thoughts.

I turned myself
into a jukebox,
and I repeated
that at request:
"It's only eight."

Your fun will be
the sun, hot and looming
ready to burn you
as soon as you turn your back.
School work, long
and engrossingly
tedious.

Slowly these days
will gather themselves
in a natural way
to be dominoes, falling
under my finger,
but for now, why
must they seem like an avalanche,
drowning and killing me.

Now that the time
to face these days
is here,
there is no fun,
anyone who can
picture me with my
heart in the sky,
soaring gleefully
without knowing
where you are
or how your day's been
is an utter fool.

Like the singed
grass, each day
is another death for me.
Another gunshot
in the palm.
I've never missed
anything like I miss
you right now,
and I wonder
how many deaths
I have before
I truly die.

Only you can
ressurect me.