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Sometimes I hear you call to me, within the morning rain,
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or the sound of your soft footsteps, faint echoes from the stairs.
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And when I find reflections in my coffee cup again,
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I can’t bring myself to turn and see that you’re not there.
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Hard not to look at pictures, they hang on every wall;
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wouldn’t help to take them down, so for now I’ll leave them here
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as framed reminders that we ever happened at all.
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Some nights I stay up drinking, past putting our love to bed;
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I might imagine a ring, and rush to pick up the phone
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just to hear the static hush of nothing more to be said—
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no words of the past or where our future has gone.
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I even hope a wrong number is you trying to call;
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guess I can’t quite get used to nights awake and alone,
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sitting here wondering if we ever happened at all.
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You’d say it’s about time to put this bottle back on its shelf,
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because I’ve got some things to do. And I’m sure that you would
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wink and remind me to start getting over myself;
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and for sure you’d be right, I know that I should
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get on living without you by small steps or a crawl.
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For the sake of our children, you’d have stayed if you could;
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they’re the beautiful proof: we really happened after all.
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