When my heart aches for your contagious laughter,

And the void in my chest is as deep as the sky is tall,

I cast my eyes towards your airy abode–

The better place they say you've escaped to.

It is argued that the grass is greener on the other side,

That the sun tends to shine a little brighter.

Yet you're buried here on this barren hill,

Under a sky as black as your father's tie,

And as dark as the mascara streaked down your mother's cheeks.

The preacher man lifts his arms towards the heavens,

Claiming you'll find your home amongst the clouds.

But I can't feel your presence in the sky today,

And you were never fond of heights.



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