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?