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The mirrors and the unacknowledged nods |
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Dial tones and license plates |
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The words you didn't choose |
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Everything the day's too small to hold |
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Spills on to the dusk |
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And shorts the evening's fuse |
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So you fumble for a voice |
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And sing happy birthday |
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Read it to yourself again |
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The stories always end the same |
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He can't stay and she won't run |
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And fear is where they're calling from |
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Staunch the blood from countless tiny cuts |
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We're all out of bandages |
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The heaters' rattle, taunt |
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Sifting through translucent shards of glass |
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Looking for a filament |
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That lit the life you want |
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So you stumble for the phone |
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Grasp the cord and pull |
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Will your readership complain the stories always end the same? |
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She can't stay and he won't run, and fear is where they're calling from |
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Afraid is where you're calling from |