C
Death is real.
G
Someone’s there and then they’re not
F
and it’s not for singing about.
G
It’s not for making into art.
F9 F
When real death enters the house
Em
all poetry is dumb.
F9 F G
When I walk in
C G Am
to the room where you were
F G
and look into
C C/B F
the emptiness instead
G
all fails.
F
My knees fail.
Am
My brain fails.
C
Words fail.
G
Crusted with tears, catatonic and raw,
F Am
I go downstairs and outside and you still get mail.
C C/B Am
A week after you died a package with your name on it came
G F G
and inside was a gift for our daughter you had ordered in secret
C G Am G
and collapsed there on the front steps I wailed.
F E A5
A backpack for when she goes to school a couple years from now.
Bm C G Am
You were thinking ahead to a future you must have known deep down would not include you
G F G
though you clawed at the cliff you were sliding down, being swallowed into a
C G Am Am/G
silence that is bottomless and real.
G
It’s dumb
F
and I don’t want to learn anything from this.
Am
I love you.
