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I miss you the most at 3 AM when I open your door to check on you, and you're not laying there anymore.
I stand there staring at the empty bed washed in lamp light.
And there's hardly even a ghost of you.

I stifle the urge to say anything to you, because you won't hear it.
I can't bring you pickle juice anymore.
I can't hold your hand.
You'll never be able to tell me that you love me again.

I miss you the most at 3 AM when I lie awake in bed, and I'm haunted by the memories of your pain.
The strangest things arouse in my memory, you dancing around with me at 4 AM.
You calling through the door to me on nights I've drank too much and I've gone insane.

Even now writing this all down seems a silly chore, you won't read it.
I can't hear your voice anymore.
I can't see your face.
You'll never be able to see those Christmas lights again.

I miss you the most at 3 AM when I think of you dead, and you're not breathing anymore.
You are only existing in my memories, your shell rotting in that pink coffin.
And your blood stains are still on the floor.