I overstretched my arms into September,
you watched my limbs break off on the first day of November.
I counted the days until everything would come back together,
I ran out of fingers to count with.
I coughed up enough gun powder to finally go back,
knocked on your door,
dropped myself straight on the porch in front of me.
I rang the doorbell until my fingertip started to bleed.
Your neighbors are telling me to stop grieving over someone
who still has a pulse, but I can't stop looking at our pictures
like a finalized headstone after the engraver asks,

"Is everything spelled correctly?"

I'd tell him he carved in the wrong date of death,
that's not the day you left, you never left.
You're going to answer the door,
everything can come back together again.
I won't have to count the days anymore.

I'm still right here.
I know I'm here because the storm drain hasn't moved me yet.
It hasn't taken my head and shoved me under your debris,
because I haven't let it.
I spent so long trying to figure out where it hurts,
and wound up right here.
This is where it hurts,
I'm not on your porch, my fingertip breaking,
I'm laying right next to you,
your arm draped over my shoulder,
your groggy voice in my ear.
This is where it hurts,
This is where everything fell apart.
This is where everything will come back together.
Everything will come back together again.