Thursday

You told me on your birthday all the things that this place had done to you.
And in the streets you walk.
You hide your face because they don't believe that it's true.
They say it doesn't happen that often.
But it's happening right now.
I'm writing you this letter to let you know I'm not alright.
And in this city the streets are paved with hate
And you cry yourself to sleep tonight.
And say "no, there aren't enough love songs in the sky."
You counted down the days till you could say "Bye-bye, city, bye-bye"
You're walking down on Union
You see the roads and know they're apart of you.
They say it doesnt happen that often
But it's happening right now.