Now its a telephone on your hospital bed
The most we spoke; the least we said
20 minutes of fighting with the television for awkward conversation
A third of the minutes diluted with silence
When I dont have a response to a sentence
It's been 2 weeks since you had your rib broken
Have to replace your phone cause some kids had stole it
In that call, I revert back to being a kid
and selfishly clawing for your attention
Knowing I lost that when I was 12 and you were in prison
Or maybe 9 when the shit had so many dimensions
I only had you to blame for becoming the defendant
You were my uninvited baggage on the doorstep
Crocodile tears in my carriage
2 hours west to be by your hospital bed
You were 3 weeks out of the cold
The nurse hears more than they want to know
And you remind me of when a friend from 7 years ago
She had a dream you were dead and unknown
Washing up on the river bank
Now your hospital is 2 miles away
From the bridge, you told me you wanted to jump
Until someone stopped traffic to shut you up
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