I ran out of love, I ran out of drinks. I stare at the golden apple tree. Wish I had her, wish I didn't, oh her honey emerald eyes. Golden flakes of snow, long red hair turning orange now, golden slippers in her feet, above the ground asking me to leave. I want to taste victory, I want to taste defeat; for god has lead me to the edge of the world and I an at the verge of jumping in, just to reach, just to feel the indescribable taste of love. Oddly sweet, oddly weird is the inside of this apple tree, saw it's leafs fall, set down in route 55, the tree spread out. Now all I do is see her as I drive by, still conserving her oddly shaped apples, but not the same honey flavour hiden in each kiss, each bite. Oh Honey Green Apple Tree Grow Old, but not without a goodbye.
