Was it the way you waved hello in the morning
that made me want to hold you?
Was it the way you held me
that made me want to kiss you?
Was it the way you kissed me
that made me want to love you?
Was it the way you loved me
that made me want to marry you?
Was it the way you married me
that made me want to have your children?
Was it the way we had children
that made me want to grow old together?
Was it the way we grew old together
that made me want to die together?
Was it the way you died before me
that made me want to go back?
Was it the way I couldn't go back
that made me want to pull the trigger?
Was it the way I didn't
that made me wish I did?
Was it the way they put me in that place
that made me want out?
Was it the way I tried to swim across the river
that killed me?
Was it the way I died
that made me so happy?
Was it the fact that I saw you, in all your shining glory,
with your long beard, and your top hat, and those shoes I got you for the 67th birthday
that made me realize it was all worth it?
All of the crying, and sorrow, and laughing, and darkness, and beauty,
was all worth it.
Because it lead me back to the way you waved at me
every morning that made me want to hold you.

It was cold
the night she left us.
Her body ached in pain
as she held the gun.
Her thoughts were dark, dreary, morbid.
We never thought to ask
why she didn't smile anymore.
Her eyes were like a shut down motel,
dark and closed and creepy.
Her teeth were yellow,
for only they could stop the words from spilling out.
She had stopped eating,
she left for lunch.
But we just thought she had met someone.
And we were right,
in one way or another.
She had met a man,
a man that reeks of decay, and death, and sorrow.
He only wears black, even on the hottest days.
His face is made of bone, and nothing but.
We will all meet this man at one point,
he is Death.
How we meet him, well that is up to him.
For her, he chose sooner rather than later.
I wonder if she regrets it,
I hope she doesn't.
She deserves to be happy now.
I wonder what caused her to do it.
Was it Bill, who played practical jokes?
No, she loved those.
Was it Ted, who hit on her everyday?
No, he apologized.
Was it me? Did I do it?
Yes. I must've. I had to.
Why else would she do it?
Maybe it was when I tripped her.
But she knew that was on accident.
Maybe it was when I kissed her.
But she kissed me back.
Maybe, just maybe, it was because I never told her I loved her.
Maybe. That word will be the death of me.
As it was of her.