| The click of the front door
|
| Your clothes left on the floor
|
| Bike wheels still turning
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| Where you left them on the back lawn
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| Your voices recede and
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| Your fingers slip from my hand
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| White skies and silence
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| A lifeless wind burns through the Downland
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| And it’s cold, cold, cold, cold, cold
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| When you’re not home, home, home, home, home
|
| I sit and stare, I sit and stare
|
| Into my phone, phone, phone, phone, phone
|
| I love that silver-grey first morning light
|
| I see that fearless love in your blue eyes
|
| Think I can picture some new shape of life
|
| But now you’re not home
|
| No, you’re not home, not home
|
| And it’s cold, cold, cold, cold, cold
|
| When you’re not home, home, home, home, home
|
| I sit and stare, I sit and stare
|
| Into my phone, phone, phone, phone, phone
|
| I love that silver-grey first morning light
|
| I see that fearless love in your blue eyes
|
| Think I can picture some new shape of life
|
| But now you’re not home
|
| No, you’re not home
|
| I love that silver-grey first morning light
|
| I see that fearless love in your blue eyes
|
| Think I can picture some new shape of life
|
| But now you’re not home
|
| No, you’re not home
|
| Not home, no, you’re not home
|
| Not home, no, you’re not home
|
| Not home
|
| No, you’re not home |