Marathons

Counterfeit cashier’s checks got us around
Amateur architects on common ground
Dressed up in our memories, selective and hazy
And yet, we still wore it out

And so those matchstick red numbers came pouring in
And our makeshift skyscrapers were all condemned
As if we’d forgotten how our parents had rotted
While they’re still crumbling

It’s four hundred miles for a new set of teeth
Lost in turnstiles, vultures circling
A summer of salt for cuts I can’t clean
Tracing the faults, working from memory
Well, until the phone lines lit up like Christmas trees

Hmm, alright, our forgeries weren’t so bad, we just thought too small
Yeah, we’ll buy our houses back and tear down them all
So we could build our own bank, a private drunk tank
For our endless withdrawals

It’s eight hundred miles to try the old key
Love like turnstiles that won’t let us leave
Just wait till the fall to try and get clean
It’s nobody’s fault, just blurred memories
Burning down the house like an old Christmas tree
Waking up in a sweat, smelling smoke in our sleep
If we make it through the year in one piece
It’ll still just repeat

And it’s all because our love was born in a whorehouse
So everything we build will keep falling down
Yeah, it’s no wonder why we grind our teeth
Through monotony and old routines
Between marathons like these

Twelve hundred miles swallowing teeth
Archaic smile, empty passenger seat
A winter of salt for cuts reopening
Yeah, it’s all our fault, don’t just put it on me
But I’ll take it all if we can finally leave
Our dried up skeletons on the side of the street