Burn After Writing

Here's to you, the same chords that I stole From a song that I once heard The same melody I borrowed from the void I'd rather observe than structure a narrative The characters are thin; the plot does not develop It ends where it begins It's on the screen, in paperbacks In Section 8 and cul-de-sacs Electro haikus and drunk sonnets Are moving me along You cut my hair You left red ink everywhere Do my hands tell a story? Is it boring? You cut my hair You left red ink everywhere Do my hands tell a story? Is it boring you? What I'd give to force your sigh What I'd give to see you cry What I'd give for your caress To see your blue cotton dress Balled up on the floor Certain memories are the problem Certain drunken lines are the shame Seven hundred miles and four years I can't fight the flame, it burns And it burns, and it burns, and it burns You cut my hair You left red ink everywhere Do my hands tell a story? Is it boring? You cut my hair You left red ink everywhere Do my hands tell a story? Is it boring you? Was I wishing on satellites? Tell me how you've been doing that trick I'm just wishing the flame away Now I'm wishing the flame away