People tell me that two years
is equivalent to the speed of a bullet train.
But I think they just say that
because they don't bleed when you're gone.
And 'cause they don't hear your name
when the wind whispers through the quakies.
To them, September is when
the leaves change
and the sun dims,
but when you hold me,
September is still too hot and should never be lonely.
People tell me I'll blink and twenty-four months will have
danced before my eyelids,
But they're just saying that
so I don't have to cry oceans at their doorstep
at one o'clock in the morning
because you were busy watching metal come alive.
And letters are good,
even though handwriting is bad,
but pen isn't the same as
hearing your voice breathe
'I love you'
or
feeling it in your arms.
Two years is a lot longer than twelve days,
and because of this
I know they are wrong,
And I have every right to feel like
I am drowning.