Dust on the shelf, it lingers.
But I left long ago,
the sky the only witness to my flight.
You decided to stay behind and fight
a disease that you called heartbreak.
And you weren't
but you weren't
expecting this.
I've gone postal, with a postcard
attached to a postmark,
kissed on with my senile lips.
The card reads
"I fell in love with long distances, and
now the telephone cord has been cut."
So now I'll send you silent screams by airmail,
and they'll have you reeling,
because I was the only thing you weren't ready for.
And don't bother sending a thank you note,
I cut out the return address,
you now have no outlet
for this loneliness.
And you just can't handle it,
but that's too bad.
You'll never kiss these pessimistic lips again,
you can't deal with the truth.
