Maybe I should listen to the rain and the wind,
and maybe they’ll be some excruciating friend.
My eyes grow heavier everyday.
Do I want you to stay? Do I want you to stay?
The end of a train, the front of the bus,
the beginning of me or in the middle of us?
Would you put down the knife?
Would you put down the pen?
I swear I have tried to again and again.
What was it you said? I can’t quite remember.
It was sometime in June, or maybe December.
I wish you didn’t look at my art like you did
Like a shit fingerpainting from some kid.
Your brown eyes can fade into black or to blue
I want to, I do,
Yes I want to know you.