two heads in it
but only one heart remains
and no matter what we tell ourselves
it won't happen, not again

and telling tales
wont keep us close
and shooting stars
wont help us cope

with the voids that grow inside
with the voids that grow inside

eyes to eyes
we tell our lies
painted in "always now, love"
but all fish die
as with our cries
we wont be sent above

"pick me ups" and "maybe nots"
i sink along the queue
and after then maybe i'll
learn to follow you

but that will destroy us
and every waking minute
and every sleeping hour
i care to be abused

through all those early talk shows
and late night reviews
i cant help pondering
if you had lit the fuse

and telling tales
wont keep us close
and shooting stars
wont help us cope

with the voids that grow inside

and telling tales
(of what could have been)

wont keep us close
(for an instant)

and shooting stars
(those mystic lines)

wont help us cope
(with our long lives)