I know all their names.

It's like the reverse of being popular,
I know all of them, but none of them know me.
There's Edgar Jones, Denise White,
Horace, Robert, and William.

I like to spend time with Edgar,
He's next to an especially nice tree.
Some nights I keep Denise company,
She's waiting for her husband to arrive.

If Horace could talk, I wonder if
He'd tell me why his son got here first?
Or what he thinks about the flowers,
The ones that are always decayed.

I don't really know why I come here.
Maybe it's because I never got to know them.
I wonder if William liked to fish?
Maybe we could've gone fishing.

I don't know if Robert can hear me,
Although I doubt he cares either way.
When I retire to that spot by the pond,
Will there be anyone to talk to me?

I'm not afraid of dying.
I'm afraid of being alone.
The only thing that separates me from them
Is just a little bit of time.