| Riding through nostalgia, shaking memories by the mile
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| The city lights are closing in on him
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| The distance grows shorter for a while
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| He wonders what dreams fill her heart
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| And wonders if what they had could ever be sparked
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| «The roads never lead where they’re supposed to go,»
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| That’s what he tells himself before he lets it go
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| Out on the cold grey plain, sunken on the side of the
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| Road
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| The words bleed off the page, the letter becomes
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| Well-soaked
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| «No more turning backwards,» he says, as he drives off
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| In the rain
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| Ventures on up through the Colorades and settles under
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| The rock
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| And pines, and stakes claim
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| Still he wonders what what dreams fill her heart
|
| And wonders if what they had could ever be sparked
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| The roads never lead where they’re supposed to go
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| They just twist 'round and 'round the flame
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| The eyes closing, the heart retains
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| A bit of a spark before it fades away
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| That’s where he gets lost and drifts off alone
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| And what he tells himself…"Better let it go." |