Feb 2015
The distance melts my heart and I'm crying your absence in oceans tonight. The salt burns my face more than usual as I remember choking on water, hoping it would buy us more time to say I love you before we drowned.
I close my eyes and remember watching the sky with you when everything was moving too fast.
It made me believe that time stood still.
I find myself leaving the window open for you or the stray cats,
and jump whenever the wind whispers something
that sounds like my name.
You're gone and far away,
but can I still call you baby on Sunday mornings?
"Sit up and drink your coffee,
I'll be your saviour and we wont have to go to church today"
I warmly say to the vacant space in my bed.
I still see you sipping your coffee
pretending I put in enough sugar
and sometimes I catch myself setting out two mugs before work,
pretending you're still here.
It's another Sunday morning and I'm sitting in church.
I imagine God speaking to you -
When he speaks, you buckle at the knee's
as he proclaims
"she wants you. You are gone and far away but when you look up at the sky you think of her and it seems hard, buts its simple"
she wants you.
Today I prayed that you'll never go deaf.
Six Sunday's have past since I've gone to church,
and I'm sitting on your side of the bed this morning.
I hear you mockingly whisper into my ear..
"sit up and drink your coffee love, I'll be your saviour and you wont have to go to church today"
I squeeze my mug so tightly that it shatters into 365 pieces, a shard for each day of the year you lied to me. It burns and bleeds and God is laughing at the symbolism of the self inflicted pain derived from not knowing how to let go.
it's been six Sunday's since I've heard my own voice and from the day you left I've stayed awake at night counting the thousand different ways our lips touched, and how this was our way of talking
about things you can't describe with words.
But now I can hardly speak through these water logged lungs.
I try to cuss but I don't recognise my voice unless its singing your name, we spoke a language of our own but you left and cut my tongue out along with my heart and every ****** Sunday I hear God screaming,
"ARE THEY GENTLE WITH YOU? DO THEY TAKE THE TIME TO COUNT YOUR FRECKLES OUT LOUD AND NAME THEM? HAVE THEY WATCHED YOU CRY. HAVE THEY HEARD YOU SPEAK? can you hear yourself speak?
I look over to that infamous vacancy in my bed and whisper something that sounds like an obituary
"they want to make love
but I have to replace it by holding hands while taking drugs
and I think they know where I go every time
I think they see your face in my eyes,
but they know better than to ask what's on my mind
because they know ill lose the breath from my lungs.."
*they know you are my mother tongue.
I close my eyes and remember watching the sky with you when everything was moving too fast.
It made me believe that time stood still.
I find myself leaving the window open for you or the stray cats,
and jump whenever the wind whispers something
that sounds like my name.
You're gone and far away,
but can I still call you baby on Sunday mornings?
"Sit up and drink your coffee,
I'll be your saviour and we wont have to go to church today"
I warmly say to the vacant space in my bed.
I still see you sipping your coffee
pretending I put in enough sugar
and sometimes I catch myself setting out two mugs before work,
pretending you're still here.
It's another Sunday morning and I'm sitting in church.
I imagine God speaking to you -
When he speaks, you buckle at the knee's
as he proclaims
"she wants you. You are gone and far away but when you look up at the sky you think of her and it seems hard, buts its simple"
she wants you.
Today I prayed that you'll never go deaf.
Six Sunday's have past since I've gone to church,
and I'm sitting on your side of the bed this morning.
I hear you mockingly whisper into my ear..
"sit up and drink your coffee love, I'll be your saviour and you wont have to go to church today"
I squeeze my mug so tightly that it shatters into 365 pieces, a shard for each day of the year you lied to me. It burns and bleeds and God is laughing at the symbolism of the self inflicted pain derived from not knowing how to let go.
it's been six Sunday's since I've heard my own voice and from the day you left I've stayed awake at night counting the thousand different ways our lips touched, and how this was our way of talking
about things you can't describe with words.
But now I can hardly speak through these water logged lungs.
I try to cuss but I don't recognise my voice unless its singing your name, we spoke a language of our own but you left and cut my tongue out along with my heart and every ****** Sunday I hear God screaming,
"ARE THEY GENTLE WITH YOU? DO THEY TAKE THE TIME TO COUNT YOUR FRECKLES OUT LOUD AND NAME THEM? HAVE THEY WATCHED YOU CRY. HAVE THEY HEARD YOU SPEAK? can you hear yourself speak?
I look over to that infamous vacancy in my bed and whisper something that sounds like an obituary
"they want to make love
but I have to replace it by holding hands while taking drugs
and I think they know where I go every time
I think they see your face in my eyes,
but they know better than to ask what's on my mind
because they know ill lose the breath from my lungs.."
*they know you are my mother tongue.
