I wear your scars on my knuckles, baby,
To keep you soft.
It’s not like us to be given things.
We ain’t got much.

This city sleeps in a pattern of broken junk,
But nights like this, it don’t matter.
All this dirty fun.

We’ll grow high not up.
These books and bars and this honesty,
They’re all I’ve got.
We drive on drugs, feeling everything until we get lost.

This city sleeps in a pattern of broken junk,
but nights like this, it don’t matter.
All this dirty fun.

We’ll grow high not up.
I watch your palm hug your guitar. It buzzes like a bomb.
I hardly talk. My lips are carved with lust and clumsy thoughts.
Who called the cops?

Whatever. We’ll never get caught.


Lyrics submitted by bemisman

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