I can make no noise but the scratching of pen to paper now.
And when I try to display the pieces of my heart,
they only find their way up into my throat.
Next to whiskey burns to ease "hello"'s
and "goodbye"'s I've waited too long to give.
Next to the "no, thank you"'s that were ignored,
and the thrusts of strange men that I missed you during.
Next to the laughs I've faked
at jokes that reminded me that you never liked my sense of humor.
And next to the cracks in my voice,
when the song that made me miss you before you were gone came on the radio,
but I still sang along.
And I'm sorry that "stuck in my throat" isn't loud enough to tell you
that I'm sorry that I was never enough.