I used to think,
"I've never been through it,
The deaths the stuff that make us old enough."
Old enough to love a boy whose name I still don't know.
We traded voices, blurted accidents.
Brutal winter froze through spring's slow crawl.
In The summers burn, the impending fall.
"I've never been through it,
The deaths the stuff that make us old enough."
Old enough to love a boy whose name I still don't know.
We traded voices, blurted accidents.
Brutal winter froze through spring's slow crawl.
In The summers burn, the impending fall.