I opened the fire door to four lips.
None of which were mine kissing.
Tightened my belt around my hips where your hands were missing,
and stepped out into the cold.
Collar high under the slate grey sky,
the air was smoking and the streets were dry.
And I wasn't joking when I said goodbye.
There were magazine quality men talking on the corner.
French, no less, much less of them then us.
So why do I feel like something's been rearranged?
You know, taken out of context I must seem so strange.
I killed a cockroach so big it left a puddle of pus on my wall.
When you and I are lying in bed you don't seem so tall.
I'm singing now because my tear ducts are too tired,
and my mind is disconnected but my heart is wired.
I make such a good statistic someone should study me now.
Somebody's got to be interested in how I feel
just 'cause I'm here and I'm real.
Oh, how I miss
substituting the conclusion to confrontation with a kiss.
And oh, how I miss
walking up to the edge and jumping in
like I could feel the future on your skin.
I opened the fire door to four lips.
None of which were mine kissing.
--
※ 發信站: 批踢踢實業坊(ptt.cc)
◆ From: 61.216.59.143