2 The letters I wrote her, Days in wait for reply, I know I'll never be sure, If all she could say was a lie. Pen to pad could not convey, How easily she goes, But the nights I spent, from her, away, I count on fingers and toes.
5 Years old when I was a child, And innocence dirtied my face, So many memories, away I filed, To help me forget this place. My life was not unbearably bad, Although I incurred many blows, From the fists of my short-tempered dad, Count on broken fingers and toes.
Countless The hours I spent Looking up and gazing at stars, Making cats and dogs and bent- Heart-shapes initialed with ours. Smoke circles encompass my shapes, Liquid cancer pouring into my nose, Next I saw starry sour grapes, I made wine with fingers and toes.
7 The days in the week, It's usually too long for me, For 2 years she was growing weak, Then finally her soul was free, My grandfather left four years prior Bu I saw him at all of my shows, Unsure if he burns in the fire, I pray with clenched fingers and toes.
412 Holes in the ceiling, Just as many inside of me, Like a colander my soul is feeling, Like a faucet my soul does bleed. Letters and days and stars and hours, And many things everyone knows, Minutes and shapes and gentle spring showers, I count all on fingers and toes.