It seems she was just another fleeting impression
Meddling amongst your moments of transgression

Tired, dog eared, tucked into your retro suitcase
Memento of some eighteen year old embrace.

And sometimes she just can’t answer the phone
For fear of the uncertain and the unknown

She just lets it sit and hum, what else can she do?
And in any case, anyway- it’s never you.

It’s never you.

Growing divorced from that town, those faces
Falling into this city, these spaces

But somehow never quite learning to stay awake
Sleep is the only thing she doesn’t have to fake.

(It’s free and it’s clean

It’s safe just to dream.)