I guess they developed those blocks of land where our memories were made.
Skipping stones across the jetty they were falling to our grave.
I remember the cup of water that was spilling at the brink,
The times lying on the grass where I always used to think:
'Don't be the lines written on my face,
Don't be the admiring ash in the fire place.
Don't be the times I forgot to brush my teeth twice a day.
Say you want a fresh start, why aren't you here to stay?'
You were so calculated in every step you took,
I was analytical and pretended life was like a book.
I used to ask you what you thought; did it change from day to day?
(though you'd tell me how your mother was,) You never used to say.
