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Description
it’s eleven at night and there’s an empty spot where my lungs should be
and i’m covering for your lying ass
and my hands are starting to shake from where the alcohol is burning off
it’s eleven at night and you won’t even talk to me

midnight and
i feel the emptiness setting in
your cold shoulder has frozen me solid, i think
because the pain is setting in and i can’t move i can’t breathe

it might be onetwothree four, maybe four,
because i’ve lost track of the hours i’ve lost track of you and god
i can’t tell if i miss you or not
all i know is sleep keeps evading me and i want it
i want it so bad, my god i want it more than [almost] anything.

it's five and i'm reminiscing
you always told me you liked my colour best;
you'd never specify
(e.g. my hair, my eyes, my skin)
and when i'd ask you just say it again
i like your colour best.
i was too afraid to tell you that i only saw in black and white
and any colour you were talking about must have been make believe
and maybe you were too afraid to tell me you knew it already.

sixsixsix and i've got a sick heart
[that's a good enough excuse, right?]
daylight burns at my bloodshot eyes and
whywhywhy does the sun come up,
i don't need it to see how fake you are or how empty i am
and that seems to be all that's important right now
i can feel the rings under my eyes and the blueblack of my bruises
i don't need light to show me anything.

Description
it’s eleven at night and there’s an empty spot where my lungs should be
and i’m covering for your lying ass
and my hands are starting to shake from where the alcohol is burning off
it’s eleven at night and you won’t even talk to me

midnight and
i feel the emptiness setting in
your cold shoulder has frozen me solid, i think
because the pain is setting in and i can’t move i can’t breathe

it might be onetwothree four, maybe four,
because i’ve lost track of the hours i’ve lost track of you and god
i can’t tell if i miss you or not
all i know is sleep keeps evading me and i want it
i want it so bad, my god i want it more than [almost] anything.

it's five and i'm reminiscing
you always told me you liked my colour best;
you'd never specify
(e.g. my hair, my eyes, my skin)
and when i'd ask you just say it again
i like your colour best.
i was too afraid to tell you that i only saw in black and white
and any colour you were talking about must have been make believe
and maybe you were too afraid to tell me you knew it already.

sixsixsix and i've got a sick heart
[that's a good enough excuse, right?]
daylight burns at my bloodshot eyes and
whywhywhy does the sun come up,
i don't need it to see how fake you are or how empty i am
and that seems to be all that's important right now
i can feel the rings under my eyes and the blueblack of my bruises
i don't need light to show me anything.