Misery like hands falling
In the dead of night
We shoot from where we stand,
So far from the heart of things
I wish I had you in my heart then;
I know a place we could rest our bones
Where violins sound so much sadder and
I can kiss the strings you play, between your fingers
As our bodies are so much sadder, too,
Now that we’ve spit the furthest on the wall
And I still remember you, and when we made love,
All the days afterward, with you stuck in my mind
And the bar that gave us drinks,
We’d spread the word in town
And drink to your graduation,
And the baby we never had, though you swear was growing in you
As the phone clicked, and the dial tone swelled,
And the conversation ended; I proved I fell with every drink in your name,
And fell—as hands fall—in the dead of night—in misery.
With the play in the background, you wrote:
A play about feathers, and ripping, and blood.
You wrote about love once, but now, it’s nothing but breaking; and the one who got away with it, is sitting in waiting.