| Lovers leave their traces like jets across the sky
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| They find in all those faces, lines they recognize
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| My keepsakes have there places
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| At the back of a drawer
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| Or slipped between pages and stuck on a shelf
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| But I’m still in love
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| I’m still in love
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| I’m still in love
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| With nothing but myself
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| Yes, sometimes I remember
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| The way they signed their names
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| And always in December, I feel some kind of shame
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| The heart, it stays so tender
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| I reminisce like a hangman wishing his prisoners well
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| But I’m still in love
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| I’m still in love
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| I’m still in love
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| With nothing but myself
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| And I know their mother’s ages
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| And I know all the stories so well
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| And I know I’ll see their faces in Hell
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| So wipe away their traces
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| Blow the dust off of the shelf
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| Because I’m still in love
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| I’m still in love
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| I’m still in love
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| With nothing but myself |