it's september
and she's not around.
i'm getting nothing down on paper.
i wait
for telltale signs and whispers.
but the last time that i kissed her
she didn't make a sound.
who counts the clo
uds in the sky?
who thinks of simple ways to die?
who flies too close to the sun?
only you, 'cause you knew it could be done.
so help me fight myself out of this paper bag.
i know i been left alone
if you don't come pull me through.
i always wish for something i could never have.
i need to get out of here
and fly just like you do.
i'll start it simple -
a paragraph.
just a few thoughts on who you once were.
i'll get to work on my own epitaph.
just in case you find me too late for words.
who counts the clouds in the sky . . .