| You were overlooking the seafront, an open bridge. |
| I asked of another in wonder, as a token of guilt |
| And as we drift across the asphalt, overlapping the lines in the road |
| I remember a thought in soft focus for the last time, I know… or don’t |
| A mental image, a picture painting for you. |
| A wrath of primary colours, only more blue |
| A mirror image, a home waiting for you. |
| If only I actually had something to do |
| I was overlooking the city, a foreign windowsill. |
| I’d never seen our hole from that angle before, but still |
| We’re drifting across the asphalt, overlapping the lines in the road |
| Remembering thoughts in soft focus, intact with what we know, or don’t |
| After all, it’s the least I could do in return for growing up |
| I think I’d rather a small, white lie, than the crippling truth |