Now through the blanket fog, now through the city, now comes the point of exasperation.
Now dead on the long rides out, now such a pity, now comes the point where the reckoning began.
I can’t pretend I don’t reach out, abroad on tour too sore to shout.
I sleep in the isle, drift in and doubt. This loneliness eats my insides out.
Oh too tactile for comfort, dejection can be.
We lie alone in crowded rooms even.
The reds and greens in the melancholy, paint a selfish life which was not meant for me.
How have I let this happen? How did I not see?
How did the rain drip through closed windows?
How far did you let him go, how far out at sea?
How sad, my life is just my bag of clothes.
I’m sick of the seconds, I’m sick of the hours. I was never this way, not before the drought.
I tell myself some days I’m better without, when I lay to sleep at night it’s all I think about.
But to feel your bones beside my bones, I would feel less alone.
Though when no one’s left, when nowhere is home, we live and die alone.