My hands
|
Come together
|
And I draw in the breath through my teeth
|
Your curt shots
|
Sarcastic remarks
|
Come so often
|
They're never sincere
|
|
Darker amusement sets in
|
That's the problem
|
You're saying something and my eyes
|
Open wider
|
And we grin and we stare at the floor
|
Your jokes missed
|
Your hands grow to fists
|
And your lips purse
|
Expecting the worst
|
With every word
|
That's how it started
|
That's the problem
|
And after we're done
|
I can still feel your eyes on my forehead
|
And after we're done
|
I can still feel the pain in my free time
|
|
-----------------
|
Stop Talking
|
| The Walkmen |
