Sitting in the hospital waiting room
Stacks of The New Yorker by my side
I write your name in ink on the palm of my hand
I don’t want to forget
Fire alarms sounding off
A slow-motion promenade
Past the engine man
The smoke is escaping my lips

The fur from my coat
On the orange plastic seat
Brushes my leg
And it’s reminds me
That my skirt is too short
And your hand isn’t there
No, your hand isn’t there
It isn’t there


The polished floor is a speckled egg
Boots perfectly perched atop
I’m waiting for word
For someone to say it’s going to be all right
They are fixing the things
I cannot fix
But right before me everything is falling apart

The fur from my coat
On the orange plastic seat
Brushes my leg
and it’s reminds me
That my skirt is too short
And your hand isn’t there
No, you’re hand isn’t there
It isn’t there

When I was younger, I was so strong
When I was younger, I was so strong

On the other side of the sheet
Is a world that seeks less privacy
Fireworks, sex and hysterical fits
Voicemails checked on speakerphone
To no good cause or effect
Check the monitors
Quiet
Slow
They are there to be healed
Recuperate
And on this side of the curtain
Everything is falling apart

The fur from my coat
On the orange plastic seat
Brushes my leg
And it’s reminds me
That my skirt is too short
And your hand isn’t there
No, you’re hand isn’t there
It isn’t there