| Between the stacks in the library
|
| Not like anyone stopped to see
|
| We came, they went, our bodies spent
|
| Among the dust and the microfiche
|
| Dark winters wear you down
|
| Up again to see the dawn
|
| In your worn sweatshirt and your mother’s old skirt
|
| It’s enough to turn my studies down
|
| Now that you feel
|
| You say it’s not real
|
| Now that you feel
|
| You say it’s not real
|
| I never thought I would come of age
|
| Let alone on a moldy page
|
| You put your back to the spines and you said it was fine
|
| If there’s nothing really left to say
|
| You’re taking toffee with your Vicodin
|
| Something sweet to forget about him
|
| If you go your own way, I can go my own way
|
| And we’ll never speak of it again
|
| Now that you feel
|
| You say it’s not real
|
| Now that you feel
|
| You say it’s not real
|
| Don’t check me out, don’t check me out
|
| Don’t check me out
|
| Don’t check me out, don’t check me out
|
| Don’t check me out
|
| Don’t check me out, don’t check me out
|
| Don’t check me out
|
| Don’t check me out, don’t check me out
|
| Don’t check me out |