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