Winter tragic

since I've got nothing happy to say
I'm just going to write this night away
it's an old habit i use to describe
these sores on my heart, scratched with time
like when your room's painted black
preparing you for when he doesn't come back
and your cries are heard from under the door

it's going to happen again
my sadness gone for so long will begin
I'll run out of paper
to the store, my friend
as to continue this tragedy to the end

just letters and phone calls illustrating the distance
you paint in your room portraits of patience
when September is falling on us, then you can kiss him
until then you're going to have to miss him
but I'll be hanging at the end of the line
dreading that date when he's due to arrive

it's going to happen again
my sadness gone for so long will begin
I'll run out of paper
to the store, my friend
as to continue this tragedy to the end

cause there's memories of the twelfth still in my head
I'll recount them poetically here in my bed
the rhythm may be off but the meaning is there
you could tear up the paper, i really don't care
they're just old dead leaves from the winter
letters of loving snow that i should have sent her