my father sits at night with no lights on his cigarette glows in the dark. the living room is still; i walk by, no remark. i tiptoe past the master bedroom where my mother reads her magazines. i hear her call sweet dreams, but i forgot how to dream.
but you say it's time we moved in together and raised a family of our own, you and me - well, that's the way i've always heard it should be: you want to marry me, we'll marry.
my friends from college they're all married now; they have their houses and their lawns. they have their silent noons, tearful nights, angry dawns. their children hate them for the things they're not; they hate themselves for what they are- and yet they drink, they laugh, close the wound, hide the scar.
but you say it's time we moved in together and raised a family of our own, you and me - well, that's the way i've always heard it should be: you want to marry me, we'll marry.
you say we can keep our love alive babe - all i know is what i see - the couples cling and claw and drown in love's debris. you say we'll soar like two birds through the clouds, but soon you'll cage me on your shelf - i'll never learn to be just me first by myself.
well o.k., it's time we moved in together and raised a family of our own, you and me - well, that's the way i've always heard it should be, you want to marry me, we'll marry, we'll marry.