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I opened the fire door to four lips |
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None of which were mine, kissing |
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Tightened my belt around my hips |
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Where your hands were missing |
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And stepped out into the cold, collar high |
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Under the slate gray sky, the air was smoking |
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And the streets were dry and I wasn't joking |
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When I said, goodbye |
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Magazine quality men talking on the corner |
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French, no less much less of them then us |
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So why do I feel like something's been rearranged? |
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You know, taken out of context I must seem so strange |
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Killed a cockroach so big, it left a puddle |
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Of pus on the wall, when you and I are lying in bed |
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You don't seem so tall, I'm singing now |
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Because my tear ducts are too tired |
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And my brain is disconnected but my heart is wired |
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I make such a good statistic someone should study me now |
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Somebody's got to be interested in how I feel |
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Just 'cause I'm here and I'm real, oh, how I miss |
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Substituting the conclusion to confrontation with a kiss |
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And oh, how I miss walking up to the edge |
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And jumping in like I could feel the future on your skin |
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I opened the fire door to four lips |
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none of which were mine, kissing |
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I opened the fire door, I opened the fire door |
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I opened the fire door, I opened the fire door |
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I opened the fire door, I opened the fire door |
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I opened the fire door, I opened the fire door |
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I opened the fire door |
