When the pitter pat of your mouse heartbeat fades utterly away
As easily and distinctly as throes of thunder in the stormy distance,
I may go - in melancholy, there will be nothing else to do or say.

And once the rains froth on warm cement and the winds sashay
Across the treetops, and of you there is a startling absence,
I will know the pitter pat of your mouse heartbeat faded away.

It will sting, surely, to wake up every Monday through Sunday
Knowing you are not here, but I will remember your brilliance
And I may go - in melancholy, there is nothing else to do or say.

Still, the years will fly by and someday my mind may neglect to replay
Those memories of importance, and I will forget your presence,
Even as the pitter pat of your mouse heartbeat has faded away.

Then the world will move on and storms will return. In the midst of the fray
I will arrive, on the way to my own departure, a mind full of grievances.
I may go anyway - in melancholy, there can be nothing else to do or say.

And while there may be some last moment of frenzied grief, a ray
Will eventually split the clouds open; of you, I will recall some semblance,
And the pitter pat of your mouse heartbeat will roar, not fade away.
Then, finally, I will go - in lieu of melancholy, there will be much to do and say.