You can't pseudo your way back home,
where this pretty you wore as a scarf stays noosed around my neck.
The pigments are all faded.
Old shades of yellow turn into a constant gray.
But I haven't seen the light attach it's self,
like it did to your face.
No, I haven't seen the light attach itself.
Since it did to your face.

And this mason jar of the blood I've bled,
and the words you read,
sits here on the doorstep.
Waiting for you to take them home.
Take them home.

I guess I don't mind the silent screaming.
Or the feeling when my throat begins it's bleeding;
it's something to let me know I'm still breathing.
I'm still breathing.
You could always sleep easier with the radio shut off,
now I'm shut out.
Do you sleep easier now?
Can you sleep easier now?

182 days of this fallen infinite gray,
where the only thing I've ever had...
you were ripped away.

So tonight I'll lay my corpse on the stars and wait for you to take me
home.
And we'll go home.
And we'll bring me home.

We use to rise with the sun,
put the stars to bed.
Tonight we will sleep with them.