I still love the the things I lost that brought me here, the things I hide behind to make up for the years. This is my heart, my rocking chair
I was a superstar at everything, And one by one I gave up all the rest, I made a dream or two at best, And then I broke one bone and bruised the rest
It's a small town built on novel objections, And white local papers with only corrections, There's grease on the collars and ties, And a life conceived
I fear (there's things I fear) that scare me to death, I've got a lot of fears, I'll never fight until they bring me, Down for the count, I'm living in a
time) Through time zones and city lines, And these days are long but new, And I share them next to you, The postcards and mail that needs sending, I'm forgetting to send them at
time the treehouse built fell on the lawn, We sat and heard the first of songs, That every rocking chair and shoebox would create, It's a world that's
you never knew, The day full of wonder that life had had in store for you, When tomorrow's something you gave up to ignore the truth, Somewhere outside a
any of them, I've got your letters stored, And space to fill, I've got a box I never threw away, and probably never will, I won't say your name without a
And I still love the things I lost that brought me here, The things I hide behind to make up for the years, This is my heart, My rocking chair years,
I leave your keys there, on the nightstand, And lock the door so I can't walk in, And make sense of this, There's no sense to this, When I break a window
I could've saved you in the end, In the end, I skipped town without the last of words, the last of what I left, You chose drugs, you chose an ending, A
you, Well I want so much, Well I don't get to sleep tonight, You don't get to dream, There's a place in life where people fit, And we are not a part
When you get drunk and call again, And I can't sit here listening to how bad you want to pave the way, To drink yourself like Hemingway, So you can make a
I wake and I hide, I choke till it soaks into all these anxious fits, and agoraphobic dreams of happiness, I feel claustrophobic thinking, That my skin is a
you, Under stars on a blanket under the Los Angeles moon, As we sit with our thoughts and watch the planes fly by, It's nights like this that I look at