There's a void; there's a hole in my chest.
My insides are piling up.
I'll leave the light on so you can find your way home.
If these strings could tell you anything
it's that I'm here, that I'm listening
for your footsteps, the knock on the door,
for your shoes as they hit these cold wooden floors,
and your voice.
I'm in a stairwell unable to move—
inside of a church I've never been in, I never wanted to—
surrounded by these people who are thinking of you.
January 24th comes once a year,
and I still think about how I haven't shed a tear.
I'm just an asshole with a sensitive side,
but I still wake up and think that you're alive.
I'm unhappy today, and I don't know what to do.
I used to tell you that I loved you, and it's still true.
I'm unhappy today, and I don't know what to do.
I'm unhappy today because I'm thinking of you.
Losing a friend is without example; losing a friend wasn't part of the plan.

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