Dead Poetic

I don't want to come back here, to this place.
It's a cold that only comes from blaming yourself for two decades wasted.
And I don't want to come back here, to this place.
When it all just repeats in my head again, and I cannot stop it.
And the glass in the trees, and all you left here,
Reflects everything that I missed.
And the pavement is still warm from the tires.
I can still feel the fright that the night brings.
Every song that you'd sing.
And I won't ever come back here to this place.
All I ever do is picture you smiling, and then picture you leaving.
And the glass in the trees, and all you left here,
Reflects everything that I missed.
Slow down.