In the morning it will be better
that's what I tell myself.
Who am I trying to convince?
Each night after it gets dark,
I wish my lips were close to hers
instead of whispering into the chilling wind.
The words are immediately lost
just like she is to me
and I might as well be talking
to the half-moon and barren trees.
I was foolish to hope they would take wing
like a flock of doves or filthy pigeons
and find their way to her ears.
I whisper "I love you"
and the empty trees sway in response
their branches trying to brush away my tears.
In the morning it will be better
that's what I tell myself
but I know it's a lie.