Burn After Writing

Here's to you, the same chords that I stole

From a song that I once heard

The same melody I borrowed from the void

I'd rather observe than structure a narrative

The characters are thin; the plot does not develop

It ends where it begins

It's on the screen, in paperbacks

In Section 8 and cul-de-sacs

Electro haikus and drunk sonnets

Are moving me along

You cut my hair

You left red ink everywhere

Do my hands tell a story?

Is it boring?

You cut my hair

You left red ink everywhere

Do my hands tell a story?

Is it boring you?

What I'd give to force your sigh

What I'd give to see you cry

What I'd give for your caress

To see your blue cotton dress

Balled up on the floor

Certain memories are the problem

Certain drunken lines are the shame

Seven hundred miles and four years

I can't fight the flame, it burns

And it burns, and it burns, and it burns

You cut my hair

You left red ink everywhere

Do my hands tell a story?

Is it boring?

You cut my hair

You left red ink everywhere

Do my hands tell a story?

Is it boring you?

Was I wishing on satellites?

Tell me how you've been doing that trick

I'm just wishing the flame away

Now I'm wishing the flame away