It's snowing on a Monday as I am driving home. And the 
guilt begins to creep up from the ones I've left alone. 
And on this road their bodies still hang up in the air, 
between the birch's branches where I last left them 
there. There are palm prints on my window from her hands 
out in the cold. Now four years have gone by here and I 
have gotten old. And you said yourself that I'm falling 
towards the sun. Like I disguise myself to make you 
forget I'm the one. Like this was just a trap I built and 
you are just a game I won. But I don't want to run. I 
remember counting white beads as I sat in wooden pews, 
where I laid down my confessions. And I said a prayer for 
you because it's harder in December. And it's harder in 
the cold. And it's hard not to remember all the lies that 
we have told late at night, shifting shape under 
florescent light. The spray paint spelled “SALVATION,” 
but I knew you wanted more. So I paint myself in blue 
light. And I unlock all the doors because the city's 
getting smaller. And I don't know where to go. And I 
spent my only dollar hoping maybe you would know.