in the sweat stained sheets.
The dirty cups,
they keep on piling up.
In the backyard,
so overgrown.
In the dandelions,
they peek through the cracks in the patio.
She swears she hears the phone,
but she only gets a dial-tone.
So she imagines what'd she say:
"If you feel like coming home to me sometime,
yeah, if you feel like coming home to me,
I'll be waiting at the door.
There is nothing to be sorry for.
So why can't you come home?
Don't you feel like coming home to me anymore?
You don't feel like coming home to me?"
they keep on piling up.
In the backyard,
so overgrown.
In the dandelions,
they peek through the cracks in the patio.
She swears she hears the phone,
but she only gets a dial-tone.
So she imagines what'd she say:
"If you feel like coming home to me sometime,
yeah, if you feel like coming home to me,
I'll be waiting at the door.
There is nothing to be sorry for.
So why can't you come home?
Don't you feel like coming home to me anymore?
You don't feel like coming home to me?"
ugh.
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I love to talk.