And suddenly I’m at your funeral                                              
                                                                ­   again. Your body is

          bloodied, laying in the little, black, box.        
  
                                                             ­  Your face is marred.

Or maybe it’s my tears                                                            ­              
                                                  ­     that make me                                    
                forget
   ­                                                                 ­                        how you look(ed)
              You shouldn’t be there.               I won’t be there.
                                              Unless you call for me.         But
                                                                              dead people don’t speak.