I'll pour one more and then I'm through,
or I'll be heaving at the floor
before it's quarter-to-two.
But what's one more
if I can stomach four?
This sorry show is getting so old,
being so alone with these old shoes
that I could never fill -- it's true.
Barely able to move in an empty room
for all of these reminders of you.
And I wonder how you've been,
even though I'll never see you again.
I leave my bedroom door open,
sat on the barren wooden floor
looking for something to do,
and feel so unsure
of what I'd do before.
Count the cracks up on the ceiling,
believing that there could be something more
if I'd squeeze through the plasterboard -- I must be bored.
But there are worse things on which I depend
than the thought-dreams up inside my head.
Still, I wonder how you've been,
about your new friends,
if they make you laugh like I did,
if you're happy that you finally fit in,
and if you ever think of me,
just for a second.