There are a lot of stories behind these tired eyes,
and shot glasses on my desk.
There are a lot of hidden messages filling up this room,
when I tilt my head back and laugh at your jokes.
We aren’t just a fading picture in the attic,
we aren’t a grain of sand,
we are made to have a pounding heart and skinned knees.
It hits me while I’m walking home;
I haven’t spent more than a day with you in two years.
You used to hold my Wednesday nights,
Subway artists knew our orders by heart,
and our mothers thought they’d see us walking down the aisle.
We screamed to the spirits our love, without saying a word.
You were my favorite song, and my hardest let go.
As the smoke filled the air,
you whispered we are a cliché;
I nodded because it was true.
Filling the streets with our laughter,
counting down the days till I left,
let’s just forget about that.
I told my mother I wouldn’t get attached,
cause I knew this would never last,
but now your name makes me feel a million things.
I thought we were only made for summer air,
but now it’s cold and you’re resting on my shoulder.
What happened to our plan?
We are still a cliché; standing on a tightrope, don’t let us fall.