| You could go for hours, months, and days
|
| In that half-hearted, pinched kind of way
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| And you don’t get too often to the bruise-coloured lake
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| To stand, hands in your pockets
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| Sometimes you don’t see nothing much there:
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| Sunken old moorings, rusted-out stairs, and white sailboats against the sky
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| Not really knowing what you came there to find
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| Not the building’s concrete spines
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| Not the bitterness you always can divine
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| And pull from your heart like so much twine
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| Ravelling, unravelling, ravelling fine
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| You got pretty lost there in your own mind
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| Pathways to hallways to doorways blind
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| All through the winter I could only stand by
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| Watching you wake to the hardest kind of trouble
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| With no guiding line
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| I stood beside you, thin as a kite, wincing in the wind’s cool bite
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| Telling me you’ll never get nothing right
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| Laughing as you said it, in the low sunlight —
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| So brief in November, and impossibly bright |