I've been missing the comfort of a good friend's couch
I may wake up with my back in knots
but at least then I'll know someone cares.
(It's this goddamn disposition
that I can neither explain nor escape.)
And going home seems so pointless
when I'm too tired to read the words of dead men
but too anxious to sleep my way to morning.
And I'm realizing it's probably all my fault
that I fell in love with you
but writing has become too exhausting
I'm just wasting ink.
So next time just leave your key under the mat
and I'll sneak in without a sound.
You've hopefully got two empty couches
I just need one for the night.
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