I’m sorry,
he’s gone,
and we’re all just a little more than lost.
But all I can think about
are imaginary summers that would never end,
and pretending to be something we’re not.
And I’m sorry you’re something I’m not
because I’m still dreaming
of climbing trees and skinned knees,
and this has left us all a tiny bit broken,
a tiny bit confused,
and maybe a tiny bit special, too.
Oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry
if it felt like I was leaving you
but you were taking secret pathways
I could never view.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry
if this is going to mean nothing to you,
because I hate every second
and every minute that we lose,
and God, I miss him too,
but it’s not like this is something
we ever saw coming,
and I’m sorry
for being less to you than stunning,
and hey, could all the memories say actions you didn’t mean?
This will always be a mess of you and me
(and Him too, but he’s here no longer,
He left us behind to wonder
“If the past is who we are,
why aren’t we with Him six feet under?”
Like three to two to one, and then there were none).
And I don’t know how many times I’m going to say this,
(scream it, repeat it, break it down and beat it)
I’m sorry, I’m sorry,
I love you, and God, I’m sorry.