When you’re not here, I’m not really here either.
I’m drenched. I’m sick. It’s that lovesick fever.
And then we sing to the mountains lost,
while cradling, quiet, the imprint of
your hand on my skin – when you left, it lay
on the cold and withered, rain-stained yesterday.
In this wonderful, exciting life-like branch
my home is where you are. / (A stolen glance.)
I’ve always wanted life to be like this,
for his hand to be in mine, and mine in his,
and for that handprint to be pressing on my soul.
So heavy, yes, but heavy fills a hole.
Those gorgeous brown eyes, how I miss them now;
even though I’m with you, I feel so far somehow.
What pair we make, you perfect, you – and I.
“Don’t ever leave. Don’t ever say goodbye”,
I need that handprint close upon my skin –
the day it fades will be the day I die within.
It’s beautiful, this pain I feel inside,
when you look at me or when you’re out of sight;
and when you’re far away, the feeling only grows
(it’s something I keep telling you, but you will never know).
My only remedy? The handprint I hold dear –
the piece of you with me, the one that’s always here.