Left Your house at the break of dawn.
Walked out the door, everyone with sleeping eyes.
In the cold I'd come to realize, at the break of dawn no one tries to glide.
Passers keep passing by, and no one gives a shout or waves goodbye.
The fog admits a gloomy light, just to see if you'd notice your reflection on the street signs.
I keep pacing with both feet on the pavement. Little thoughts reach my mind, only thoughts
and feelings of home-life.
And I've come to realize, at the break of dawn no one tries to glide,
Passers keep passing by, no one gives a shout or waves goodbye.
I always wondered if the houses knew you were alive, with each knock of the door, the bell ignites.
Does it ever wonder if you're a passer by, or someone who once layed inside.
at the break of down in the softness of your sheets, with each girl laid then bagged for release.
I'm just hoping this house remembers me.
It's getting cold and I've got a case of tired feet.
And I've come to realize, at the break of dawn no one tries to glide,
passers keep passing by, no one gives a shout or waves goodbye.
When I let myself in, the steps creak. A near silent welcoming upon my feet.
I'm just happy my house remembered me, giving me warmth, and mending my tired feet.
Sometimes I wish the house could speak. Asking questions,
"Was the walk a defeat? "
"Did the passers by speak? "
"Did those girls get their release?"
"How are your sheets?"
"Do they comfort your curves?"
"Does sadness come in herds?"
And I've come to realize, at the break of dawn no one tries to glide,
passers keep passing by, no one gives a shout or waves goodbye.
Even the house doesn't know if you're alive.