There's a ghost of a man who cared,
And I wonder.
If there's no turning back, why is my heart on full attack?
For a man who was never there.

How much is a memory?
Burned feet on the hot concrete?
A skinned knee or a papercut?
Maybe it's the wasted nights, or a dead phone,
Lonely nights spent at home
Waiting on something to "be"
Something worth being happy,
Until you find it, and smile,
The one memory that makes it all worthwhile.

The table is empty, the chairs are gone,
But I don't have the heart to see it end
I guess I'll have to mask my tears and pretend.