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Andrew has the baby tonight,
and I will move our things from eyesight
in hopes that someone comes to replace us.
Realtor says we’ll make a profit.
50/50, keep the money.
It’s you. It’s you that I want.
Everyone arrived so hopeful.
Three short years, I am so humbled.
Oh my god, oh my god, what has happened?
And when I slow down I recollect
all the hurtful things we said.
And when you phone me,
I say I am fine.
But when we hang up,
inside I die. Inside I die.
Our answers always sound so phony.
She’s so young, all we can say is
“Papa has to go away for a while.”
In hindsight you’ll say this was fated.
Was it youth or naïveté?
Neither explanation takes the pain away.
Don’t call me cynical just yet. Not just yet.
Don’t call us typical just yet. Not just yet.
We’re not statistical just yet. Not just yet.
We aren’t the 50% percent yet. No, not yet.
I sat and watched you fade away.
In my head, I was sure you’d stay.
How I wish that I could go back.
The love that we had I would protect.
Over time I’ve let it go.
All the embers have lost their glow.
Though this ship has run aground,
my broken heart is homeward bound.
Homeward bound. Homeward bound.
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