Eight months since I have seen
Green oak trees and glowing kites
Pale blue skies and star-crowded nights

Eight are the layers of pain
that have not seen any light
Eight are the loaded pistols of nostalgia
stacked on my shoulders

What is Eight?
To some; legs of a spider or that of an octopus
But Eight is the number printed on your football jersey

Maybe Eight are the cookies in that rusty jar;
But Eight is the day
of the eighth month
when you followed my paths

When the cold breeze hits me
as I smoke my eighth cigarette
and travel back in time
to when I rose in your love
up to the eighth sky

a rainbow of seven fears hit me by
and a force of friction dragged me back
to fall back in love with you
deep into eighth ground

*To the Eight I've always favored
I bitterly make a toast
Here's to the only number
that now I loathe the most