The record plays, ends, and stops.
I still don't understand my teardrops.
Days end and start,
I still can't comprehend your depart.
the windowsill becomes hot, cold, freezing, and warm
I still longingly wait, with an outstretched palm.
for a return that is impossible, no figure will come running back,
no figure will hold me in their arms until they become slack.
I mourn in a black dress, and pray at night in white,
for the return of a laugh, a smile, a hug
that once chased away all of my fright.
and I know the truth, I know the truth of it all
I know that you're dead, not waiting in the hall.
Yet I can't help but pretend, can't help but wonder
Why was life so kind and beautiful before you went under?