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chances are, itâs on the west coast. chances are, it gets you home. so letâs find a reason youâre a wreck when youâre aloneâ¦
itâs those warm pacific nights in your favorite summer dress. swimming without words through grace and gestures of regret, like the fox under the hunters gun.
you were the death i couldnât look away from for twenty something years. what did you do? well, words canât describe the way your fingers wrapped around his sad, little throat. what did you say? only youâd come back soon, just another of your lies that made me want you more. donât fuck this up.
so letâs find a reason youâre a wreck when youâre alone. forgot, too young, white lined, black lungs, living for nothing.
first make me understand, i think iâm starting to believe. first make me understand, i think iâm feeling gravity but calling it your voice, mistook identity and chance and called it grace. so make me understand, i think iâm losing hope tonight. so maybe without words it seeped into your bedroom walls, went through your lying teeth with whiskey down your throat. and you know how you are, always the grace of god when you know that i donât and that i gave that up.