IT HURTS THIS MUCH

By Doug Burgum

How could it happen? What could it mean?
How could it happen? What could it mean?
A misunderstanding; creating a scene.
He looks at the phone, no message to see.
Out dancing and drinking at three fifty-three.

Sick in the stomach, he wipes sweat from his face,
He takes a deep breath; his heart beats a pace.
He picks up the phone; his nerves feeling raw,
Still out on the town at quarter past four.

Not a problem, he thinks, she loves only me.
Partying and drinking at four twenty-three.
He’s been out of course and done just the same,
Now she’s hurting him back and he’s going insane.

But if he’s done it to her, then she’s felt it too;
The anguish and heartache at four forty-two.
It’s silly to worry, there’s nothing to fear.
Now out for nine hours, on wine and the beer.

He’s seen her like this, when the words start to slur;
Out dancing and drinking, the night’s just a blur.
She can look after herself, he knows she’ll be fine,
Still out on the town at four fifty-nine.

They trust each other, but these times they’re apart,
Put strain on their love; a strain on the heart.
Our differences settled, but he’d done nothing wrong,
At quarter past five, the night’s been so long.

He does not want her to stop. She does her own thing,
Don’t pull off her wings - Oh please God, just ring!
He swallows hard, wipes a tear from his eye.
He looks at the phone; he’s started to cry.

“OK, I get it,” he pleads up to heaven,
“Please now please stop the pain.” It’s five twenty-seven.
He swallows, then chocks; can’t take any more,
He’s sick in his stomach. It’s five thirty-four.

He lies in his bed, unable to sleep.
He cannot compete with the hours she keeps.
She loves to party, she does it for kicks,
And he lies there in pain at five thirty-six.

“Can’t do this,” he murmurs. “The pain is too great.
This cannot go on.” It’s five thirty-eight.
He whispers a prayer. “Show me a sign,
Please stop the hurt.” It’s five thirty-nine.

Finally a message, she’s had a long night.
She loves him, she says. Everything is alright.
He’s glad, but he’s sad, but can she not see?
He can’t live with this pain, at five fifty-three.

Does she know that it hurts; a twist of the knife.
“I cannot do this for the rest of my life.”
He can’t take the anguish, the tears or the hurt any more,
He turns off his phone at five fifty-four.