while i'm laying on the grass and looking up at the stars (iknowyoullbeamongthemoneday)

your feet press into the concrete and stare across at stars too...
you'll be sinking into bedsheets and gazing up into baby blues soon.
say whatever it takes to turn out records
we both know you're just giving me a taste of my own medicine.
i'm not a summer home to escape to when it gets too heated in angel city
if i knew you were a timeshare i wouldn't have signed the lease.
the piercing midwest wind reminds you how long you've been gone.
keep driving in the van that lets you play with bigger and better bands
as you run out of space to place the newest notch in your belt.
but when you come back to find a warm bed you'll be pointing fingers at me.

x j x