Is the day too long
When it is not made of us?
Is the week never full enough
When you are not here to hold?
I’ll bet your busy for the sake of busy
Just to bury your mind of us.
I’ll make the day
Out of ill and loss
I’ll make the day
Out of drunkenness and medication
Too much distance
Can try your eyes
Too much love
For the one and only in your life
I cannot say enough of us
I cannot write enough.
Are you mad at the now?
Wishing you were here
Making love and falling away
Afraid to leave the bed
And be away from me.
Are you hating what is here?
Wishing you were bedridden
Buried under covers of us
Sleeping ‘til noon
Hiding from anything not us.
March isn’t as far as it feels.
