The lives we mapped out with the tips of our fingers never left my passenger seat. It's winter now, the windows have started dressing themselves in ice, just thin enough to distort street lights we used to sleep by.
Now I am january, I am cold and rainy
and all our love, is waxing and waining
What is love but 'worry and waiting'?
I wish it were true that our steps would always rhyme,
that I still had something to lose,
but now the only steps I hear are mine.
All you've ever been to me is the distance I put between who I am and who I'll never be.