And He Was Gone

Lyrics

[Intro]

[Verse 1]
In this room, 7:03 AM, July 24th, 2004,
the air hangs at 68 degrees, antiseptic sharp against my skin.
You were here, Elisabeth would say, in her book from '69,
that grief doesn't end, it rebuilds around the empty space.
The IV stand stands silent now, hooked to the wall like a forgotten promise.

[Chorus]
And he was gone, just like that,
the anterior cingulate aching, a physical throb in the brain's fold.
I touch the worn leather journal on the bedside table,
filled with your last words, scrawled in blue ink, March 15th entry.
You wrote of rebuilding, of learning to live with the hole.

[Verse 2]
The half-eaten oatmeal on the tray, cold since last night,
congealed like the thoughts I can't shake.
Outside, the ambulance idles, lights off in the dawn,
its engine a low hum, carrying others but not you back.
Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, born 1926, gone the same year as this chill,
whispered in interviews about acceptance, that quiet dawn.

[Bridge]
The stethoscope hangs on the chair, unused since they checked,
your pulse fading at 7:00 sharp.
I address you now, through this journal's pages,
intimate as breath on glass, close as the musty linens' scent.
The pain processing lingers, months later, UCLA said in '04,
triggered by a photo, a name, a empty bed rail's cold metal.

[Verse 3]
Curtains half-drawn, pale light filtering in,
the world still, but the loss raw as exposed wire.
You will heal, she quoted, rebuild around the suffered loss.
I trace your handwriting, the date April 2nd,
words of forever grief, learning to carry it.

[Outro]
And he was gone, but the room remembers,
the journal holds you, intimate and close.
The neural ache, a companion now.