When the darkness sings its sorrow
and the cold gets into bed
and the night comes lurking through the window
and at best it feels undead

and the solemn men stand on the side walk
handing out pamphlets for
forsaking all who deny them
the right to love

and it burns like a ghost
in the silent halls of this house
and wails like an ode
to a star-crossed lover leaving home

and the wound is still fresh open
and the blood still pools in my skin
if love is meant to be perfect
then how could I let this in?

and though time is nothing but a construct
how it hurts just the same
though distance is only a number
it's one with no one to blame

and it stings like an old
love lost to a rival
and it breaks like a bone
can we turn back time on our own?

and it fades, and it fades and it fades
and it fades, and it fades and it fades

and it fades, and it follows, and it follows and it fades
and it fades, and it follows, and it follows
and it fades, and it follows, and it follows and it fades
and it fades, and it follows, and it follows

So how does it feel to be on your own?
While I'm here collecting dust.
Like a photograph of the moon in 1963
it's like I just forgot the use of me

So how does it feel to be on your own?
While I'm out here losing touch
and every day and week by week
I'm out here collecting dust.