On the night you came in, I wasn’t sleeping.
I felt the “waiting room tension” when I asked you where you’d been.
You said “the hardest part of growing up is not knowing where you’re growing to”.
So then you had a couple more drinks and I began to mirror you.
You won’t see Christmas if you carry on this way, just know it’s ok that you don’t feel ok.
On the night you came in I was the ceiling you’d confide to in your bedroom on your lonesome nights in.
It was the late hours of the night, you were still in early hours of mourning.
No it was not raining outside, but in your kitchen it was pouring.
You won’t see Christmas if you carry on this way, know it’s ok that you don’t feel ok.
As your heavy heart stumbles on ice, I’ll be your amateur shrink for just another night.
Bloodshot eyed, you asked me why girls only seemed to like the others.
A domino effect, you introspect.
I said “the kind of girls you like only like the boys, who they wouldn’t want to take home to meet their mothers.”