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Half lifeShe moves in a half life |
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ImperfectFrom her place on the stairs |
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Or sat in the backseat |
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Sometimes you're only a passenger |
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In the time of your life |
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And there's snow on the mattress |
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Blown in from the doorway |
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It would take pack mules and provisions |
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To get out alive |
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There were concerts and car crashes |
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There were kids she'd attended |
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And discreet indiscretions |
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For which she'd once made amends |
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And there's ice on the windshield |
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And the wipers are wasted |
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And the metal is flying |
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Between her and her friends |
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She'd abandoned them there |
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In the hills of |
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Appalachia |
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She threw off the sandbags |
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To lighten the load |
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As soon as the sun rose |
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The keys were in the ignition |
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Following the tyre tracks |
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Of the truck sanding the road |
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There had to be drugs |
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Running through the girl's body |
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There had to be drugs |
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And they too had a name |
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And the adrenalin rush |
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Had left her exhausted |
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When under the blue sky |
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Nothing need be explained |
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And there is no maker |
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Just inexhaustible indifference |
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And there's comfort in that |
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So you feel unafraid |
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And the radio falls silent |
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But for short bursts of static |
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And she sleeps in a house |
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That once too had a name |
