I'll take Sunday night with a blanket over this old, dark house. An occasional ruffle, but nothing like you or even this memory of you. Do you save our pictures like I do? Home is where you die. We we're like a lullaby. You hit like a hammer now. You used to lean into me. Now you stand away. Those wheels just push right by now. Just a few feet from my life. If I leaned into their mess. I'd see you in hell. See you in hell. You looked straight at me, then laughed and said so honestly, "You're so dead now." As I thought to myself, "Is that really true?" Because I killed you in my head. You can too. There's no second chance.