Back in town to sell it all off. Running out of metaphors for clean slates and heart breaks. So can we promise to cut to the chase and lay it all out for one another? On the walk home the asphalt had the distinct smell of bus stops and skinned knees. A re-run of years before, just sprint for home.
Tree lined streets in a neighborhood full of phone-it-in friends. It's all like calling in an air strike from miles away. Dropping bombs and banking left. I swear on this blank slate to find the flat land if you'll just promise to send the chopper... just get us out of here.
This flare from my heart should burst through the clouds. Promise you'll make them aware... we're still here.
Orange smoke as freedom in an open field. I've seen the burners of the rescue jets going in the opposite direction too many times.
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