Knock so I'll know you're still there, half listening, interpreting the air.
Full of failing foreign tongue, my dialect of stammer come undone.
I've got these threads of you and I that I use to tie my doubts down, and from four times-zones away, still yesterday, still talking to the past: from the front seat of your car, gravel road and falling, falling hands and falling star.
Start the engine up. I'd like a new identity.
A pseudonym.
Some plastic surgery.
Or just a way to disappear.
Someone to write me out of here.
I hear you hum an unfamiliar song.
Thought maybe you would come along.
Perhaps you'd like to see some piece of this; my new philosophy is that a crappy tape deck somewhere plays a greatest hits collection of strange and tender moments, lost, stranded, and forgotten.
I'll meet you there. (Something I forgot to say: can't find a way to make this mark more clear.
So crack your skull before you weep, and I'll try to keep some part of me sincere.)