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Clouds turning pink over trains passing cities,
we'll inherit the fog, and I think we're like cats, some.
Your words are handsome, and I like how they come out.
They skip the bad press, fall straight into my mouth.

Alone at the dock, skipping stones that I don't throw
but I'll throw myself off, star-studded peepshow.
Microphone breath is the best at recanting
so I drown in the bathtub to old Irish chanting.

Sundowns are never this green at the movies,
you're tellin' me stories and plans I forgot.
Seabirds interrupt the classic south farm light,
you're holdin' me close but you hold the book real tight.

I don't need an alibi.
I can waste my own time.
You crack my eggshell mind right
and I can't say I don't like it.

My negative bones disappear under black light,
your lostboy and rainsmell come clean under string lights,
the spell is a dream if I hooked up the chords right.

Sway here with arms crossed, shared sweat on the ceiling,
I'm tired of skeptics, my own disbelieving.
This is untied, this is closeness, this is all.


from Slept in my Windbreaker, released September 6, 2013



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