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She wraps her letters up with finger nails, |
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And reads them only to herself, |
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She hangs her walls with bits of cellophane, |
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What a perfect day, |
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And as she sleeps beneath her sheets, |
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Made up like canopies against the wind, |
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She holds her plastic boxes through the night, |
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Never see the light, |
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These are the things that I know, |
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She creeps outside to watch the trains go by, |
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And rides her bike out in the rain, |
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I saw her once and thought that she might smile, |
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So I'll wait a while, |
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These are the things that I know, |
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The winter came and passed away, |
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She tried to speak but nothing came out right, |
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And then she sent her letters far away, |
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They arrived today, |
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These are the things that I know, |
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These are the things that I know, |
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These are the things that I know, |
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But these things are mine to hide, |
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In a place that I'll, |
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Never find... |
