October

 
If I was a nicer man
like the gentlemen you often mention
would you miss me more?
I know I never brought you flowers
or much else
and you call me a heartless cunt
when the mood is dimmed and right;
who am I to say you're wrong?
I never sung and never will, for you
but that doesn't mean I'd never want to.

If I tell you that you're the copper leaves
laying at the foot of a barren oak
would the flowers mean more than words?
With a heart I can tell you I miss you
but it's not strong enough to bleed out
on the foot of the barren oak.
I won't hear you miss me, when I'm away;
I tell you: I wish I could sing for you
and console you with roses
but a cunt like me can only tell you my wishes
because tomorrow you can't say you miss me.

I hate this season and its flaking beauty
as it sheds its coat at my feet,
but I'll thank October in years to come
when a cunt had wished, bleeding on roots
in a month that witnessed my heart.