You think it would be easier to bury your head,
to bury your heart in the ground—
to not have to deal with people around.
Was our time here so vacant and unkind?
We contribute only to the ills of mankind.
We’re so good at falling from grace,
but how could we escape and leave it all behind?
I tell you, this isn't the last time.
This isn't the last line
you'll hear from us.
Curled up to a blank page to fill,
summoning for a line to come to mind—
twinkling lights signal the holidays have arrived,
but tell me, how to escape and leave it all behind?
I'm telling you, this isn't the last time.
This isn't the last line
you'll hear from us.
The darkness keeps getting longer and colder.
Endless music spins, enveloping this desolate space.
I wonder if fire is keeping you safe and warm,
or do you wander rain-filled streets?
I swear, this isn't the last time.
These aren't the last lines
that you'll get from us.
The warmth of our hearts is long gone,
but the remembrance—the music—I blame,
as the bells keep jiggling along.
Coffee Shop Sessions 