what, then, do i do to make you something
when all i take from you is my own refelction?
and when the day has all but forgotten me,
how, then, do i hold you with my blunted hands?
i have made an end; take me home again
and i’ll leave my shoes at your door.
show me another room, somehwere
i can call my own;
and though you have built a wall around you,
i am standing on the inside.
now here i face the long-fading road again
and the familiar fall of my old shadows,
but if i’m to show you
something, anything that’s true,
i can draw from only what i know;
and i’m starting on the inside.
there’s not life enough
under the in-between.