The lives we mapped out with the tips of our fingers never left my pa**enger seat. It's winter now, the windows have started dressing themselves in ice, just thin enough to distort street lights we used to sleep by.
Now I am january, I am cold and rainy
and all our love, is waxing and waining
What is love but 'worry and waiting'?
I wish it were true that our steps would always rhyme,
that I still had something to lose,
but now the only steps I hear are mine.
All you've ever been to me is the distance I put between who I am and who I'll never be.
I know nothing but your eyes.