ferrydust

This is no great illusion;
when I’m with you I’m looking for a ghost or invisible reasons
to fall out of love and run screaming from our home.
‘Cause we live in a house of mirrors;
we see our fears and everything:
our songs, faces, and secondhand clothes.
But more and more we’re suffering;
not nobody, not a thousand beers,
will keep us from feeling so all alone

But you are what you love,
and not what loves you back.
That’s why I’m here on your doorstep,
pleading for you to take me back

And the phone is a fine invention—it allows me to talk endlessly to you,
about nothing, disguising my intentions,
which I’m afraid, my friend, are wildly untrue.
It’s a sleight of hand, a white soul band,
the heart attacks I’m convinced I have
every morning upon waking.
To you I’m a symbol or a monument,
your rite of passage to fufillment,
but I’m not yours for the taking

But you are what you love,
and not what loves you back.
So I guess that’s why you keep calling me back.

I’m fraudulent, a thief at best,
a coward who paints a bullshit canvas;
things that will never happen to me.
But at arms length, it’s Tim who said
I’m good at it, I’ve mastered it,
avoiding, avoiding everything.

But you are what you love, Tim,
not what loves you back.
And I’m in love with illusions,
so saw me in half;
I’m in love with tricks,
so pull another rabbit out your hat.