I have about an hour left to
Sober up, and figure out
Just what happened when I said
Tonight would be a different night
Because it comes once a year
And I usually remember it too late
And it never means as much just yet.
Already I forget
The words I said yesterday
The graveside tears
How I sat where I am supposed to be buried
And how I cried once I said,
"I’m not crying this time."
It's all part of a longer story
The one I’m always writing
Or rewriting rather
The one that’s supposed to tell me
What tomorrow's like
And how I figured something out
The day before
When no one was watching
And I wasn’t thinking
And feelings were open to be subjected.
To think about how I'd be missed
And by whom
And for what.
To fear this morning that Amy died as well
Just because my parents weren’t there
When I woke up
And me planning how I’d tell my mom
How many weeks of mourning I’d need
And how horrible life would be
I guess it keeps me happy
To know how much worse
Things could be
Here’s to hoping I die first.