| I’ve learned how not to miss the age of tenderness
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| That I am so lucky to have seen once
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| And now that I’ve become older I’ve how to brush over
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| My history and how it’s sequenced
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| When I think about you I see a person who
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| Hasn’t existed for a long time
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| Before you started using, before I starting choosing
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| To do the same thing for the same reasons
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| The first name I called you is not a name at all
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| More of a duty than a function
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| Often an execution, often with deep confusion of
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| 'Who was I when that name was just mine?'
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| Like a serpent charmer negotiating harm
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| I live with a basket of your silence
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| And as the years record I can feel it growing board
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| But I keep the top on in the meantime
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| When I pass my reflection there isn’t any question of
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| Where the person in it came from
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| When I catch myself thinking and hear the voice that speaks inside
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| I know where I got my brain from
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| Every step I’ve strayed from and followed
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| Led me to the same location
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| Every act I’ve forsake and borrowed
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| A delivery to now
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| And I’ve never wondered how I came to be
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| I feel free like you promised I’d be |