Sunday isn't Sunday anymore
when he's not here it all gets confused for me
in the nights it's too hard to sleep
and in the mornings my head drops
on the floor in the living room
lie my dead hours
all the dead hours
I hide the scratches
I tell everyone I'm fine
but all the time I check messages
when will he finally write me
sweets don't really help either
to fill all the holes that he left
they say it's good for you there
in the mornings at the end of the world
there are sunrises in reverse, the sun rises from the sea
Wednesday Friday Saturday
when he's not here it all contracts for me
I don't look in the mirror
I'm not myself when I miss him
I'll burn all my dead hours in the yard