Say your plane was going down.
Say you took your medicine.
Would you sleep through turbulence again?
Say you knew two months before.
That you'd be lying on the floor.
Would you wake
in heaven?

What man or woman would you call?
Would you be awake to feel the fall?

Say you were to meet a friend
For coffee
at half past ten.
Say you stood up
and then-

Say the plane you didn't catch.
Came down upon her
and crashed.
Say the things you wouldn't say to me.
To them.

All the bodies on the ground.
All the blood and screaming sounds
just like you will sound to me
four months from now.

If we stood in ash and dust.
What would we let cover us?
Would the rain keep falling?
Or would we rust?

Who could know it'd end like this?
We swerved towards the precipice.
We went through the windshield.
We went through the glass.
I swear this is the last time
I will ever ask.

Now that we are comatose.
Now that we are deja vu.
Will you give a name to me?
Can I give a name to you?

We are rubble.
We are rocks.
We won't help you.
We'll just watch.