two weeks. fourteen days.
(it's enough time to dig a grave)
thirteen nails and one night's time to show you why
I regret everything I say.
I wanted to keep you soldered to my chest:
a two-headed, tongue-tied monster
in a twin-size bed.
...and if by some chance we die before we wake,
at least careful hands have crafted us a place
to lay.
So, we'll kiss quiet now, so as not to wake the rats
or whatever's out there with us tonight.
I'm getting tired of fighting you off.
If you're going to follow me, then follow me
into the hole I dug.
This could be what you wanted for us now:
side by awful side underneath the frozen ground.
We'll get comfortable inside the box we made.
Hollow trees will sing to us and our mistakes.
two weeks. fourteen days.
enough time to dig our grave.
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