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You were a journalist when we first kissed |
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And I held my breath and waited |
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For the world to turn inside me |
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But you fucked me up somethin' serious |
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And left a mess for whoever next would come along and find me |
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Lane, Lane, |
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Hiding in the corners of your heart |
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Sleeping in the backseat of your car |
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Lane, Lane, |
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Sleeping beneath you on your floor |
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Sleeping on your back porch |
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Even the birds would sing of the sweltering |
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Summer of unprecedented nervous sleep and nightmares |
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There was something else I had to sing myself |
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A song of love was coming up but never really gets there |
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Loneliest art of loneliness |
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Was always lost on you |
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The intricate emptiness |
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One plus two? |
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Now all the scientists and mathematicians |
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Are sorting through your garbage |
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To try to find evidence about you |
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But soon enough they too will be left |
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Because live or die you realize |
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The world still turns without you |
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Lane, Lane, |
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Hiding in the corners of your heart |
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Sleeping in the backseat of your car |
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Lane, Lane, |
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Sleeping beneath you on the floor |
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Sleeping on your back porch |
