Does he kiss your eyelids in the morning when you start to raise your head? And does he sing to you incessantly from the place between your bed and wall? Does he walk around all day at school with his feet inside your shoes? Looking down every few steps to pretend he walks with you. Does he know that place below your neck that is your favourite to be touched and does he cry through broken sentences like I love you far too much? Does he lay awake listening to your breath? Worried that you smoke too many cigarettes. Is he coughing now on a bathroom floor? For every speck of tile there are a thousand more that you won't ever see but most hold inside yourself eternally. I drug your ghost across the country and we plotted out my d**h. In every city, memories would whisper, Here is where you rest. I was determined in Chicago but I dug my teeth into my knees and I settled for a telephone
and sang into your machine. You are my sunshine, my only sunshine I kissed a girl with a broken jaw that her father gave to her. She had eyes bright enough to burn me. They reminded me of yours. In a story told she was a little girl in a red-rouge, sun-bruised field and there were rows of ripe tomatoes where a secret was concealed. And it rose like thunder, clapped under our hands. And it stretched for centuries to a diary entry's end where I wrote, You make me happy when the skies are grey You make me happy the skies are grey and grey and grey. Well the clock's heart it hangs inside its open chest with its hands stretched towards the calendar hanging itself but I will not weep for those dying days. For all the ones who have left there are a few that stayed. And they found me here and pulled me from the gra** where I was laid.