My heart's left at the door,
Bile is resting, bottom of my throat,
Saying, 'don't talk no more'.
The hammock's calling me to meditate,
The air's stuffy in here,
Trying to remember the day of the week,
Remembering that I'll never see her,
The trees that are towering behind me,
Planted when I was young,
Inhaled her breath to keep themselves alive,
Are pining for her lungs,
And her laugh, too,
'Cause that shoots out more breath,
And if you were judged by exhalation,
She would tower high above all the rest.