I don't believe in much. I know that it's a problem. Like being romantic. I've never been no good at bringing flowers to you. . I don't believe in fate.
Her eyes are waiting in loose calls. Turned panels are stained brown. Everyone's tiring. Sit side by side in queue corrals with a serious slope. We're in it together but no one talks.
She used to clean up nicely, play dress up. Now she's throwing her clothes away, says she needs the added space. . She used to walk on concrete, now the sidewalk.
Now kid, I know I haven't been a perfect man. And I've avoided doing things I know I can. But if I've learned one thing the tattoo on my arm. Will burn into my thumb it would be that.
I can't sleep when I think about the times we're living in. I can't sleep when I think about the future I was born into. Outsiders dressed up like Sunday morning.