This Is A Fire Door Never Leave Open-The Weakerthans

Headlights race towards the corner of the dining room. Half illuminate a face before they disappear. You breathe in forty years of failing to describe a feeling. I breathe out smoke against the window, trace the letters in your name. Our letters sound the same; Full of all our changing that isn't change at all. All straight lines circle sometime. You said "Somewhere there's a box full of replacement parts To all the tenderness we've broken or let rust away. Somewhere sympathy is more than just a way of leaving. Somewhere someone says 'I'm sorry.' Someone's making plans to stay." So tell me it's okay. Tell me anything, or show me there's a pull, Unassailable, that will lead you there, From the dark, alone, benevolence that you've never known, Or you knew when you were four and can't remember. Where a small knife tears out those sloppy seams, And the silence knows what you silence means, And your metaphors (as mixed as you can make them) Are linked, like days, together. I still hear trains at night, when the wind is right. I remember everything, lick And thread this string that will never mend you Or tailor more than a memory of a kitchen floor, Or the fire-door that we kept propping open. And I love this place; the enormous sky, And the faces, hands that i'm haunted by, So why can't i forgive these buildings, These frameworks labeled "home"?