This is to the (uh-uh) intertwined souls
|
the hands I've been trying to hold
|
This is to the (uh-uh) love that I lost
|
and all the troubling thoughts of how I got double-crossed
|
and this is to the (uh-uh) divorce I was forced to settle with
|
and the remorse I fought off with metal fists
|
and this is to the (uh-uh) wet, watery kiss I left you with
|
on your porch as I watched your trembling lips
|
|
This is to the... memory of our early years
|
the first girl I shared feelings with
|
and it's the realest thing I'd experienced in my short existence
|
and I ain't afraid to admit
|
cause love is one of the things that doesnt come with an age limit
|
now does it? In fact I'ma have to say I'm more keen to feel such things
|
hopeless things I'd lost in a smokescreen of meaningless fucking
|
Touching without touching, candles in the dark
|
casting shadows on our parents battles, this is for the romantics at heart
|
It wasn't long before I held you more then my pen
|
when I wasn't writing songs, it was something like
|
"Forever and always, whenever those songs play..."
|
I remember empty hallways
|
or your image that descended from the top floor became an echo
|
I paid the price for those hard things, and couldn't afford to let go
|
From a passive debt, I'm past regret
|
Did you know I dreamt about you before we met?
|
Remembering our first kiss, and it ain't even happened yet
|
Recollecting your set, and I wasn't even given the chance to forget
|
I guess that's the magic of it
|
Now every rehashed subject's displaying what I wrote
|
on cafe napkins to the public
|
to get it over and done with, closure hath cometh
|
My shoulders are plummeted from holding these buckets
|
Hold your laughs till I go back to the tunnels of Paris
|
where I wrote half of these paragraphs... but fuck it
|
|
This is to my ten year story, in another decade
|
you better be better prepared for me
|
in the first four years, you were all ears
|
then for the next six, you left me for the next exit
|
with depth to my message
|
So that began my affair with the world abroad
|
Behind the curtain with the other hurtful girls I explored
|
Until I became the monster, turning to the words that I record
|
Part of me, if you heard it all before
|
"I didn't shake you to hurt you"
|
when you landed on the floor
|
In a room of naked virtues
|
I closed my eyes to cancel what I saw
|
Your hand made the first move to the handle of the drawer
|
where the frail girl couldn't think to live
|
"I didn't shake you to hurt you"
|
I never planned it before
|
I can't shake off your perfume, can't wash my hands no more
|
and I'm breaking my curfew, but I can't walk
|
I'm standing at the door, I hear the wailing of a little kid
|
...and the failure of innocence
|
His compromise eyeing the side of the kitchen sink
|
What'you think, I just let you cut you, cut me-- cut the bullshit
|
Damn, I love the hugs enough to tolerate
|
the way we made each other crazy, making it so tough to operate
|
Productively, my self esteem didn't help when I felt ugly
|
and I figured that's the reason why you wouldn't trust me
|
My ego does bleed, I shouldn't have let you test it
|
and let your arms free to follow up with your domestic slip up
|
Love is a battlefield so lick your shots quick
|
while I lick my wounds and then resume as an obvious target
|
Infatuations with the past protect my Purple Heart with
|
a faded picture I had in my shirt pocket
|
I'm going out with a bang..
|
in a blaze of glory holes, the anti-hero
|
I don't care how many ways the story's told
|
Be careful when these doolies play like drums
|
and be careful what you say, because my uzi weighs a tongue..
|
|
This is to the sleepless evenings that I spent next to grave stones
|
Hoping someone from beyond would grab my arm and take me home
|
I hadn't accepted I'd have to make it alone
|
after feeding everything I had into a payphone
|
and this is to the rain..
|
I felt like it was made of spit
|
My parade was an unbreakable chain of Gabe's trumpets
|
Save the buckets even though they weighed down my walking
|
You don't know the height of the steak you place your fork in
|
You look old (that's what you said) |