| I don’t want to come back here, to this place
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| It’s a cold that only comes from blaming yourself for two decades wasted
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| And I don’t want to come back here, to this place
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| When it all just repeats in my head again, and I cannot stop it
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| And the glass in the trees, and all you left here
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| Reflects everything that I missed
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| And the pavement is still warm from the tires
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| I can still feel the fright that the night brings
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| Every song that you’d sing
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| And I won’t ever come back here to this place
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| All I ever do is picture you smiling, and then picture you leaving
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| And the glass in the trees, and all you left here
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| Reflects everything that I missed
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| Slow down
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| I’ll try and make it up to you
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| They’ve cut down the trees to try to forget you
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| But I took a vow to never forget you
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| If you’re still here, then we’re waiting
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| We’ll wait for you to come back home to the broken little foes
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| Until the guilt grows and grows
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| When the time that’s wasted comes back to haunt me
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| And I’ll deserve every bit. |
| because I’m not spiritual yet
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| I’m just reading the lines they gave me from the pulpit
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| And it’s not fading off, we remember the years
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| As we sift through the laughter to find all the tears
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| And I’m not worthy of grievance, I did nothing to prevent this
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| And standing at your grave, I could have caused this |