It might escape your field of vision for another day or two, but eventually you’ll see what’s missing.
But you’ve got no evidence, no witnesses that saw me throw that high school yearbook off the overpass. I just can’t be remembered like that! Show me out, shut the door. Thank the lord that we won’t do this anymore. Breathe a sigh, cut the cord. Don’t reply, just leave ‘em wanting more.
Paid to be an open window, I unhinge at the suggestion that I traded everything worth saying just to have a crowd to listen. Here’s a love song for my baby, here’s a love song for you, babe, that you didn’t hear enough.