You said you were plagued by wanderlust.
You're like a sleepwalking tinman in a china shop.
Have to move to someplace else or bust,
it's all downhill from here. You'd walk but you just can't stop.
Wearing fingerless gloves
having a handrolled smoke
you said you'd fall in love or else you'd
go for broke
but when you pulled back the gloves I saw those little glass fingers
that always seemed to break before they bend
paper trails always point somewhere in the way that they linger in the letters you write but know you'll never send.
There were two of us, but sometimes two feels like a crowd.
Waning smiles, waxing dangerous, looking in the mirror, staring back proud.
They say the future won't last,
but the past doesn't keep any better.
But still, I always take the high road in my head.
One night, I thought about giving you a call or writing you a letter
but when I got up I wrote this song instead.
You can send out for a punchline and get another one for free,
and all the jokes will line up waiting for you to tell them what to be.
You can sing out for an echo, the ricochet right at your feet,
but every echo that you sing for won't sound the same when it repeats.