| Four hundred bones, crumpled in bed
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| I’m the only one who knows that you’re still breathing
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| Beneath the blanket of another French death
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| This afternoon is one I will be keeping
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| Where skin is painted by a brush from the sun
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| Pull the sheets up to your neck so she can’t see us
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| And let the clocks do all the worrying for once
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| We’re passing out inside the sleeping mausoleum
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| This is my safe house in the hurricane
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| Here is where my love lays
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| Two hundred treasured bones
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| This is my warmth behind the cold war
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| That day is what I’m living for
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| Forever coming home
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| Here’s to the room I can rest in
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| The door I’ll always open
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| Never to be closed
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| You as my horizon line
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| The star I navigate by
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| Takes me back to hold two hundred perfect bones
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| On absent days I will return to this place
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| And play a silent colour film within my head
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| In which the pillow leaves a code upon your face
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| And all at once it all makes perfect sense
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| Four hundred bones, crumpled in bed
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| I’m the only one who knows that you’re still breathing |