I went away for months, or maybe it was years; 
my house was overrun by fears. 
But while I was not home, 
I left a faucet running 
and i wont call it "hope," 
but I'm still alive, so that's something 
One thing I learned after so many months or years: 
regret is the past tense of fear 
And I know memories 
are like running water 
and I don't want them to freeze, 
but I could use something to hold on to 
Strange faces in the crowd... 
and you walk around like you own this town 
In my kaleidoscope heart, 
you're a shard of fire 
and I won't call it "love," 
but there's more to it than desire