| You tell me everyday
|
| Where would I be without you
|
| Oh, I don’t even know
|
| It’s the middle of September
|
| I slept maybe for an hour
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| I have to make a flight by seven
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| I’ll be gone just for the weekend
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| For two shows outside of Philly
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| That will pay my rent completely
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| I feel kinda sick like always
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| I’m not ready
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| There are still glass shards in the kitchen
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| From the glass jar that I broke when I poured in boiling water
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| I was less shocked by the shatter
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| Than that I never saw it coming
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| Ethan said, when we were younger
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| That weird summer in Columbus
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| «Things are written so big that you can’t even see them.»
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| We are driving to the airport
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| Fighting about something
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| I read later it’s not uncommon
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| To not be able to remember
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| Any details or how you got there
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| Like what even really happened?
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| Never really even mattered
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| And you tell me I’m included
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| But I always feel like nothing
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| While your friends whisper about my weight
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| And how they can see the outline of my stomach through my t-shirt
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| See my skeleton climb out of my fucking mouth
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| And start running away from this as fast as possible
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| Leaving it to some other hapless fucker
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| To get tricked into forgetting
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| And having fights they can’t remember
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| I hope you feel perfect
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| I hope that you stay famous
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| I hope that your fans write poems to you
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| About how you truly changed them
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| And I hope they squeal and preen
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| And tell you how you’re so amazing that they can’t even process it
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| I hope that no one ever knows you
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| On some broken, rainy morning
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| Before the sun clears through the clouds
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| In a sky that is eternally apologizing
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| Walk alone down to the banks of the rising river
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| And with your hands in the sand
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| Dig a small patch of ground
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| And lie there repeating «I was wrong»
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| Until either you feel better or the slow waves overtake you
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| Neither one will happen
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| You tell me everyday
|
| Where would I be without you
|
| Oh, I don’t even know |