As far as I'm concerned,
this is the last place there will ever be.
This town is a hole that wont be filled,
by mores of you and me.
And I will not fore sake these whispers
to the shallow night.
The yellow moon hands over our highway,
lonely sister to my headlights.
And it may as well been Winslow
or some other God-less place.
And it's just as well that I'm leaving
weathers getting cold anyway.
With one oar in the water,
and one eye on the shore.
How's it any wonder I'm still headed
for where I was headed for.
And the whispers, of old timers
build verse throughout my head.
And the farewell of a girl I knew
rides shotgun on my back.
Sometimes I still see you in
recesses of my coffee cup.
When the rain comes down
and the morning gives way
to a day without the sun.
Is it me who had to fail, or us who have to be
cause there is no both there is only words
the ghost of in between.