This stoy keeps writing itself, pages and chapters of you and I, of things that I wish would have happened, of things that I wish you would say, then you whispered to me said I missed you, as I silently basked in your words, these eight letters that keep me from growing, out and away from you
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we still return to the seasons where these corners and cracks of this street are still leading me home
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this tongue just keeps tying itself, unspoken words from the mouth of a bottle of things that I wish I could tell you, of things that you can't understand, and we still return to the life where these...
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I keep running back in your direction, to these beaches and swings that we know, it's as empty as when we had left it, still writing these letters to you
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the truth behing story incredible glories of you and what my mind has made you, the life bearing pictures these porches these splinters and summers that are making me whole
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still I fly high and away from these dreams
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still I fly high and away from these things
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So Much For Nostalgia
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| A Day At The Fair |
