I stay awake at nights,
Wandering around the house like a ghost,
Every hour or so, I smoke a fag and keep walking,
I sit and listen to night music,
Air, Jeff Buckley, Elliot Smith, Tom Waits.
I sit and listen to songs about love, death and life,
Everyone writes about love,
They love to write about love, especially if it's one that
died.
As I walk around the house, the old man is always there,
Watching, spying with his eyes half closed, half dead.
When at last, it's 5 minutes to 5, I lay down in my bed,
And think of what those poets whispered to my ears.
I think of love, death, life,
But mostly I think of love that dies.