I can't make it alright

I can't make it alright.

I can't make it OK.

But I could make it tonight,

If you want to run away.

Because I don't really know

The days left in a life,

I just know they're not enough

For the way I feel tonight.

In the insufficiency

Of this span of all we have

There's a certain irony

When we measure, cut in half

Cut in quarters, fifths or tenths

Call it anything at all,

Because a minute, day or life:

All are equally too small.

And I won't be alright,

I have the dread disease,

The wasting curse of man,

And time runs out of me.

But I will be right here in this,

This moment that I claim,

And burn in hope some other soul

Will want to burn the same.