September 4, 2009

The Chain (Ingrid Michaelson)




the sky looks pissed, the wind talks back
my bones are shifting in my skin, and you, my love, are gone
my room seems wrong, the bed won't fit
I cannot seem to operate, and you, my love, are gone

so glide away on soapy heels,
and promise not to promise anymore
and if you come around again,
then I will take the chain from off the door

I'll never say "I'll never love"
but I don't say alot of things, and you, my love, are gone

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