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Summercide
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Comadre
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1
So I remember when he used to call my name.
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He used those letters that I wish I could forget.
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It was never the tone of his voice or the people in his pupil's, no, not his choice.
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It was something proper, but whatever, he was dying.
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It was the summer suicide, the sun was sinking into our moonlight.
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And even when the night was blind, we felt a ghost waiting by our side.
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The summer suicide.
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Now it's December, never useful, so dead's my game.
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Now no one's clever, not like he was, I won't forget.
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Now I hear about the moon in the mind.
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Stealing hours, mornings, minutes, eating pride.
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Now we're all proper, but whatever, I still cried.
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It was the summer suicide, the sun was thinking into our moonlight.
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And even when the night was blind, we felt a ghost waiting by our side.
15
The summer suicide.
Comadre - Cold Rain
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