The blankets are soft
And the pills keep you asleep
Until the number on the calendar is changed
And it's a new day that you'll probably never see
Salt is like a stone lion
Guarding libraries and embassies
There's so much to stuff in your brain
A pen, an encyclopedia, an album, a star, a dog
But I keep my head locked up
A padlocked cellar in a tornado
And Dorothy can't get in
She's a little piece of flotsam
A beetle, an ant
In a big place made out of marquees and taxis
The lights are made out of stanzas and people less fortunate
She's not going to make it
Not through the night
Not through rush hour
Or the six steps it takes to get to you
The walls are made out of concrete
I can hear you breathing on the other side
I can hear everything you're saying, everything you've ever said
It's all here, under my skin
Filed away, cataloged, numbered
Under the Dewey Decimal system
A record of every laugh that ever passed your lips
A treasure chest of every smile that made your skin stretch in a good way
And every time you made me feel like I could climb Everest without oxygen
Well I should probably go back
Because there's no room for me
Your heart is already full
And you should probably stop that bleeding
Because the six steps just turned into three
Two
One