When I disappear, will you be afraid?
I'm a liver or loner on paperback hills
as white as a streak of recognition when you see the coffin's familiar face.
But these winding paths won't reach the guise of a heaven on rooftops,
the fantasy lines chalked by a man with a crooked beard
and a stable housewife that hands him a beer when he hands her his life.

When I disappear, will you follow me home
and greet me whole-heartedly?
Will I be alone?
Or will sister return for each brief second gone
to say "It's about time, I was getting bored,"
or "I still judge you all, I'm a God of my word,"
or "I love you, my friend, and it wasn't your fault."

When I disappear, will time be renewed in the way that I wish:
a greeting card specially drawn
for apologies and letterheads, resumes and concert halls,
loveless rejection and funerals?
Will I have one last chance to squeeze her cold hand
and say "See you later" as if death is dismissed?
I'll live a fair life full of goodness, I hope,
for a chance to preserve the true friend I had lost.