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.