Sunday mornings we would make breakfast together.
I always burned the bacon a little bit too much for your taste
Or overcooked the eggs
And sometimes we wouldn't eat at all
We'd stay in bed and sleep until one of us had to go

I'd wake up to small strips of light firing through your brightened blinds
And hear you singing somewhere near
And every morning you would sing
And it would wake me from my frozen trance with a warm smile
And sometimes even lull me back to sleep to much more soothing dreams

But one day you stopped singing
And your songs became more and more rare
Beaten into a gentle hum that could only be heard from the same room

And then you stopped humming
You'd get this quiet sadness in your eyes and while I'd try to help
Or alleviate it in anyway I could
It would linger like the ghost of a parent

I'll miss the morning tunes the most I think
But maybe I was right about one thing in all of this
Maybe things are better this way

But darling, do I miss the ******* music from your soul
And I hope one day
You find your song again
And someone
Or some situation
That makes you sing every morning
To greet the sun as warmly as it will you.