I watch a young boy with a bag of stones 

In a car, I know that I dont own

Its well past three and you phone for me

To come and trace back the road


I know this road it smells like storm

And as far as I know its not home 

The walk it leads, through cherry trees

To the holy dark thats at your door


Its happening


I watch anxious as you sort through skin

And Im firmly pressed against the wall

You crawl on the floor to a bag of stones

And as far as I know this is home


Its happening