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Well the clock is ticking over, ever nearer to the day |
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And the body next to me is drifting further and further away |
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I am het up, overheating, not sleeping, reliving my past mistakes |
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Maybe it's all imagination |
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Won't you listen? |
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I just want to make this work |
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What is it I'm doing wrong? |
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And I struggle as I lie |
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Not to panic, not to cry |
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Don't turn the tap on, I want to keep it dry |
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But what do I know? |
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How do I know what is going on for real inside that head? |
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So I softly bump myself over to his side of the bed |
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And he jumps like I've burned him and turns himself over |
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And I did not hear what he said |
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Maybe he's dreaming of somebody else |
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I'm not one to listen to myself but listen here I will |
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I'd be better off sleeping than weeping and waiting for him to go in for the kill |
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I don't turn the tap on |
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I keep it dry |
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I have no control over what he decides |
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And he tells me when he wakes |
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He was dreaming of a place |
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Full of boxes of chocolates and train-sets and games |
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Full of toys |