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The workin' days were propping the bar quietly erasing the week |
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And I was in a corner booth thinking, pretending to read |
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About the impossibility of one to love unconditionally |
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The words that we drive into the ground |
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Their repetition starts to thin their meaning |
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Then everything got frighteningly still |
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As they entered and intersected the floor |
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And I tried to choke my stare at the perfection that others would kill for |
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But all of the parts are the same on every face, few variables change |
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The differences pale when compared to the similarities they share |
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Finally there is clarity and there is purpose after all |
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But every night ends the same as I'm collapsing once more by your side |
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Finally there is clarity, this tiny life is making sense |
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And every drop numbs the both of us, but I alone am staggering |
