Does he kiss your eyelids in the morning    when you start to raise your head?    And does he sing to you incessantly    from the place between your bed and wall?    Does he walk around all day at school    with his feet inside your shoes?    Looking down every few steps    to pretend he walks with you.    Does he know that place below your neck    that is your favourite to be touched    and does he cry through broken sentences    like I love you far too much?    Does he lay awake listening to your breath?    Worried that you smoke too many cigarettes.    Is he coughing now    on a bathroom floor?   For every speck of tile    there are a thousand more    that you won't ever see    but most hold inside yourself    eternally.       I drug your ghost across the country    and we plotted out my death.    In every city, memories would whisper,   Here is where you rest.    I was determined in Chicago    but I dug my teeth into my knees    and I settled for a telephone    and sang into your machine.    “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine”       I kissed a girl with a broken jaw    that her father gave to her.    She had eyes bright enough to burn me.    They reminded me of yours.    In a story told she was a little girl    in a red-rouge, sun-bruised field    and there were rows of ripe tomatoes    where a secret was concealed.   And it rose like thunder,    clapped under our hands.    And it stretched for centuries    to a diary entry's end    where I wrote,    “You make me happy    when the skies are grey    You make me happy    the skies are grey    and grey    and grey.”       Well the clock's heart it hangs inside its open chest    with its hands stretched towards the calendar hanging itself    but I will not weep for those dying days.    For all the ones who have left    there are a few that stayed.   And they found me here   and pulled me from the grass    where I was laid.