It's always late at night the cliches come pouring in;
looking at our mistakes through rose coloured glasses,
seeing plenty of fish and spices.
Maybe it's your turn now to stand where I stand.
But my eyes are still bright and my jeans are clean this time,
I threaded that needle for you.
What if I could fall through, into these dreams of yours
and write my name all over them
and then I'd know what you'd think of me,
we'd never give up.
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