| I’m still struggling with what comes next. |
| Yeah, I’m all talk when I say I’ll
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| start to drink less, and that time I said that I’d be better off,
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| it counts for nothing when action’s already said enough.
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| Love lost its flavour on a burned tongue, like bourbon burns in poems inside of
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| virgin lungs.
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| And mine, they were screaming for blood, but no one was listening.
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| But while that heat held our hearts in its throes, with dirty water and ash in
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| our bones, to plant our hope and watch what grows our Southeast Summer,
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| a withered rose.
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| And to your West Coast flashing of lights, to that Pacific blue ghost in your
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| eyes, to the collision at Blonde and the past, I whispered «don't come back».
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| It’s not enough to simply let it lay, to say you’re sorry or to stay away,
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| you try to bury your spite beneath the arid soil but you can’t kill the roots
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| when they’ve already taken hold.
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| And to your west coast flashing of lights, to that Pacific Blue ghost in your
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| eyes, to the collision at Blonde and the past, I whispered «don't come back».
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| And to your flights back east, Ohio Valley retreats, to the collision at Blonde
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| in the past, don’t remember, don’t come back.
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| And if time won’t heal, then I don’t know what will. |
| Life’s too long to wait
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| and tell, Kentucky straight on a wound that will not ever heal.
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| And to your west coast flashing of lights, to that Pacific Blue ghost in your
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| eyes, to the collision at blonde in the past.
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| Don’t remember, don’t come back. |