| These are your instructions, should you chose to follow
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| Sit down with pen and paper, begin with something hollow
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| At the past words you offer a kind of explanation
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| And only take up places that do not need to say them.
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| Open up the closet, find this winter coat there
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| Check inside the pockets, find a couple notes
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| It says ‘milk and Sunday paper' and a heart smudged in blue
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| You fold it up and box it before you have time to think.
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| Sundays are the hardest, a void from near your backroads
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| Erased the old phone numbers, delete all the photos
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| And those you haven’t heard of come as no surprise
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| They made the calculations when they chose aside.
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| These are your instructions and you become repulsive
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| And old friends say they miss you and sleep becomes illusive
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| Fill up every journal, empty every shoe box
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| Turn the lists and letters, sweep out all the old thoughts
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| Shake off all the covers, roll every window open
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| Stand here with the bare feet welcoming the morning
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| These are your instructions and places left you stranded,
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| But you are lost and wounded, bleeding and abandoned.
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| It’s the tourniquet for pressure that I knew it’s healing
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| It’s a prayer for good measure when you think you’ve lost all feeling
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| Walking to the guest room, the last place he was sleeping
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| See the outline on the pillow, smooth it without weeping.
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| One last final walkthrough, move the bags and boxes
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| From front porch to the back seat, probably ain’t the losing
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| These are your instructions if you choose to follow
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| Stop and take a big breath, begin with something hollow. |