Well gather up your demons we've got stories left to tell. A brief insight into your personal hell where we're the non-believers asking "if I ever fell could I trust you to be there to catch me?"
Well take your photographs and get them all underexposed. Hide them somewhere safe, somewhere that no one ever goes. I'll pin up all your letters and I'll iron all the clothes, and nothing will upset me except me.
Take what you wrote down and give it away, put a new pen to page. When you are around you keep your ear to the ground and your sights in the clouds. Goodbyes are too difficult, new lies are irresistible. I'm tied to lines about my health written in the dust on your bookshelf.
It's on nights such as these I think of drives out in the snow. As it beat down on the windshield looking for a place to go, were we searching for a path or were we searching for an answer to the question we never asked, "are we right for each other?"
Well gather up your demons all the stories have been told, and one by one these thoughts get old. When footsteps by my doorway led me into the unknown, I kept on walking looking for a place to call my home.