| I was packing to move to New York City
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| You were the last thing I thought I’d find
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| Miles and miles away you should be gone now
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| But our years together play like movies in my mind
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| Because I found your letters and the
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| John Barton record that we spun till it was dead
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| I found your mix tape for the road
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| And two tickets for the show and your sock
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| Under my bed, and now I can’t get you out of my head
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| Memories of you seem to linger here
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| And they’re getting harder to ignore
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| I swear I heard you singing in the kitchen
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| And your bare feet tapping the rhythm on the floor
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| I thought I saw you walking through that door
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| Oh, I wish you’d walk through that door
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| Why don’t you come get your letters and that
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| John Barton record that we spun till it was dead
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| Come get your mix tape for the road
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| And two tickets for the show and your sock
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| Under my bed, come get yourself out of my head
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| Oh, now that you hear, you’re far more beautiful
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| Than I remembered, oh, remind me why
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| We’re not together, shouldn’t we be together
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| Why don’t you come get your letters and we’ll
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| Spin some records, then go out and paint
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| The town with it, I got two tickets to the show
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| And I think that we should go, and if you want
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| You can crash on my bed, because I’d rather you there
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| Than in my head, get out of my head |