| You crawled into my bed that night
|
| Like some sort of giant insect
|
| And i found myself spellbound
|
| At the sight of you there
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| Cocooned in my room
|
| Beautiful and grotesque and all the rest of that bug stuff
|
| Bluffing your way into my mouth
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| Behind my teeth, reaching for my scars
|
| That night we got kicked out of two bars
|
| And laughed our way home
|
| That night you leaned over
|
| And threw up into your hair
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| And i thought
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| I would offer you my pulse
|
| If i thought it would be useful
|
| I would give you my breath
|
| Except
|
| The problem with death is that you have
|
| Some hundred years and then they can
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| Build building on your only bones
|
| 100 years and then your grave is not your own
|
| We lie in out beds, and our graves
|
| Unable to save ourselves from
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| The quaint tragedies we invent
|
| And then undo from the stupid circumstances
|
| We slalomed through
|
| And i realized that night that the hall light
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| Which seemed so bright when you turned it on is nothing
|
| Compared to the dawn
|
| Which is nothing, compared to the light
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| Which seeps from me while you’re sleeping
|
| Cocooned in my room
|
| Beautiful and grotesque resting
|
| That night we got kicked out of two bars
|
| And laughed our way home
|
| And i held you there thinking
|
| I would offer you my pulse
|
| I would give you my breath
|
| I would offer you my pulse |