Sometimes, when I gaze up at the moon,
I hear your whispers in the dark.
And every time I do,
I taste my salty tears.

I can’t forget your glistening eyes,
Or the lonesome sun your smile becomes.
You are the harp in an empty church,
And I am the sinner, in love with your sound.

And I am broken without you.
When the harp stops, I sin.
When the sun sets, I sigh,
And when the whispers silence, I cry.

And who would have thought it would ever happen?
Who would have thought the sun could be locked up?
Who would have thought the harp’s strings could splinter?
Who would have thought I could lose you to the smallest illness?

And don’t think I could forget.
Because I could never forget your cold hand in mine.
Your sun-like eyes, fading into pitch in your dull hospital bed.
And suddenly, the harp’s strings snapped.

So as I gaze upon the moon and hear your delicate whisper,
I smile under the moonlight and gentle stars.
For though day is done,
Gone is not the sun.

And though the harp is broken,
Its song lives on forever.
For you have touched me in such a way
That I am forever changed.