Only when it's cold, I find myself there again.
It was awhile ago, but not long enough
to wipe the mark off my soul.

Why did I let you walk down that stair case,
an open door that still won't shut,
three dozen roses and four glasses of wine,
guess it wasn't enough to keep on the lights.

I crashed out on the wood,
still have the scar on my forehead,
can't look out that window at the still water
because we're not there.

You slept on my bed, so I chose the couch.
How many weeks went by I'm not sure,
but by August I was gone.

One more run in October,
up to Monroe,
to chase good times forgotten,
first bog I called shotgun,
and actually got to sit there.

The winter is always cold,
but this one is going to beat all.
Because the water's freezing up at Sunrise
and I still see you when I'm looking forlorn.