The Same Strokes lead into Old Habits

Where this sea of quilts that once embodied you are covered in your scent

I pretend you lay closer to mean than where you are in actuality

And I can only wish I were fragile and blue for you, waiting in the melancholy waste

As prayers and conversations with God begin to mean less and less than before

Just as Early mornings meet late afternoons, we lose track of all time, track of our minds

While the older women down the street converse about their youth, we're trapped in ours

As my hands reach to your cheeks to touch your beautiful porcelain cheeks

I imagine our bodies falling into the sea and my eyes wake before we hit the bottom

While these strokes lead us into all of our old habits, You keep on coming back

cheers.