Blood-stained sheets of paper littered the floor, like
the mind of a depressed author. And you picked one up, looked
me in the eyes and said this is a dead man's idea of good-bye,

where you got them, I didn't know, but I listened
to the way your voice softened as you read and sang and
wallowed. I'm sorry it had to come to this you read, I just

don't think I belong here anymore. There's this empty
hole in my chest where I loved you once before. And baby,
don't cry, you did everything you could, but sometimes

everything just isn't enough. You never said who the author was
and I think that meant a lot. I remember the night you serenaded
me with lines from suicide notes, and I remember how it was not until
the end that I realized it had been yours.