I have this thing where I get older, but just never wiser

Midnights become my afternoons

When my depression works the graveyard shift, all of the people

I’ve ghosted stand there in the room

I walked through the door with you, the air was cold

But somethin’ ’bout it felt like home somehow

And I left my scarf there at your sister’s house

And you’ve still got it in your drawer, even now

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