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I am walking |
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Out in the rain |
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And I am listening to the low moan |
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Of the dial tone again |
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And I am getting |
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Nowhere with you |
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And I can't let it go |
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And I can't get through... |
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The old woman behind the pink curtains |
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And the closed door |
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On the first floor |
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She's listening through the air shaft |
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To see how long our swan song can last |
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And both hands |
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Now use both hands |
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Oh, no don't close your eyes |
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I am writing |
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Graffitti on your body |
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I am drawing the story of |
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How hard we tried |
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I am watching your chest rise and fall |
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Like the tides of my life, |
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And the rest of it all |
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And your bones have been my bedframe |
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And your flesh has been my pillow |
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I am waiting for sleep |
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To offer up the deep |
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With both hands |
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In each other's shadows we grew less and less tall |
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And eventually our theories couldn't explain it all |
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And I'm recording our history now on the bedroom wall |
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And eventually the landlord will come |
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And paint over it all |
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And I am walking |
|
Out in the rain |
|
And I am listening to the low moan of the dial tone again |
|
And I am getting nowhere with you |
|
And I can't let it go |
|
And I can't get though |
|
So now use both hands |
|
Please use both hands |
|
Oh, no don't close your eyes |
|
I am writing graffitti on your body |
|
I am drawing the story of how hard we tried |
|
Hard we tried |
|
How hard we tried |
