Why is it that when I think of you
I see a picture of a place I used to call home
An abandoned building, if you will
An abandoned home;

I scurry to find a way to get back in
but there's none -- there's zero; it's locked
I stand there in grief, staring into the abyss of broken promises
to just turn and walk the somber streets alone

I walk these solemn streets with a head full of muck in hopes to find a new place to call home
but in all reality you were the only thing that ever gave colour to the house I used to live in alone

I'm addicted to you
Just like how I'm addicted to the sadness that courses through my veins
And the cigarettes that burn my lips
And the needles that leave bruises on my skin
But of all these addictions
You'd have to be the worst to ever touch my skin