Tell my eyes they don’t miss you.
Tell them that they can see you…
You’re on my walls, on my screens.
You’re in my pocket,
Your picture is with me all the time.
But it’s not the same.
Tell my eyes they don’t miss you.
Tell my arms they don’t miss you.
That there are people to hug,
God-daughters, sons, friends and family,
There are cats, pillows and cushions.
But it’s not the same.
Tell my arms they don’t miss you
Tell my heart it doesn’t miss you.
Tell it that it’s just a machine for pumping,
Just an organ – that my head is the centre of my being.
Tell it that the pain isn’t real. That it is still whole.
That you didn’t take it with you.
Tell my bones they don’t miss you.
Tell them that the ache they feel, down to their core,
Isn’t your absence…
It’s just old age, the same old age that we thought we’d share,
That we’d spend being rebellious, cantankerous and happy.
Tell my bones… tell them that they, out of all of me, can look forward
To the day when they will be laid beside yours
And there’ll be a reunion of a kind.