I'd wear the shoes if they fit.
Sing the harmonies in three parts
On my own,
But I've dyed my hair back
And have gotten old.
I'm leaning towards a shorter future,
Patent yellow rainboots,
And Sunday afternoons,
Cause the mornings played on repeat
And tired out the mood.

I want a friend who stitches up the wounds
Without sympathy.
I want a lover who idolizes my broken bones
And understands empathy.
I hate the way I stretch out long nights
And sleep when the sun stays out late.
Sunday mornings call to comfort
And the birds visit my grave,
Saving the funeral for a rainy day.