thanks for getting me so close to 580!
we pine away for days of old,
we’re strung along like we’re made of gold.
we’re nothing like what the fates foretold,
i’m growing bitter, i’m growing cold.
but the air is changing, and so am i,
i’m left here dangling in the open sky.
spring speaks renewal of times gone by,
can i let him back in one more time?