My sweater was a grave, in which you buried your face
Before a reach-over retracted as sure as the name
Etched into stone cold shivers,
Impulses that go into hibernation.
Acknowledgments on the final slide,
The sun slips under the ocean's tide
Pushing out bubbles that rush up from the sand,
The day's last breath used up in a sigh.
A runway dissolves in wet darkness and foam
And leaves me to fly from what I've always known,
One more timely wish for the last stitch was sewn
That last track had played on which I took you home.
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