Does he kiss your eyelids in the morning when you start to raise your head?
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And does he sing to you incessantly from the place between your bed and wall?
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Does he walk around all day at school with his feet inside your shoes?
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Looking down every few steps to pretend he walks with you.
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Does he know that place below your neck that is your favorite to be touched
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and does he cry through broken sentences like I love you far too much?
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Does he lay awake listening to your breath?
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Worried that you smoke too many cigarettes.
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Is he coughing now on a bathroom floor?
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For every speck of tile there are a thousand more
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that you won't ever see but most hold inside yourself eternally.
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I drug your ghost across the country and we plotted out my death.
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In every city, memories would whisper: "Here is where you rest."
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I was determined in Chicago but I dug my teeth into my knees
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and I settled for a telephone and sang into your machine.
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You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
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I kissed a girl with a broken jaw that her father gave to her.
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She had eyes bright enough to burn me. They reminded me of yours.
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In a story told she was a little girl in a red-rouge,
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sun-bruised field and there were rows of ripe tomatoes where a secret was concealed.
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And it rose like thunder, clapped under our hands.
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And it stretched for centuries to a diary entry's end where I wrote,
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You make me happy when the skies are gray
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You make me happy the skies are gray and gray and gray.
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Well the clock's heart it hangs inside its open chest with its hands
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stretched towards the calendar hanging itself but I will not weep for those dying days.
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For all the ones who have left there are a few that stayed.
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And they found me here and pulled me from the grass where I was laid.
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The Calendar Hung Itself
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BRIGHT EYES |