feels

She’s Moving Out

Man, my janglin' bones feel old today;
skin pulled tight around my face
like a skeleton hanging on a telephone wire.
Waiting for a call that never comes;
waiting for the sleep that is still a mystery.
Funny, they call the living the lucky ones.

The clocks tick the dull moments on a pendulum
into a place where I remember when
you had short blonde hair and blue eyes.
Where you weren't just another lost silhouette.
We drank coffee at night with a splash of whiskey
and you smoked those clove cigarettes.

The mornings came too quick,
but the summer days were a month of Sundays.
We sat on the porch waiting for a cool breeze
to wash across our sweating bodies.
I’ll never forget you wore that sun dress
with nothing underneath.

We ate apricot jam
and toast with marmalade;
once in a while we'd take a nip from
grandma's homemade special recipe.
Those days still stir up ghosts for me.
No one ever filled the hole in our bed.
Why are the best memories
always left by the dead?

Man, my janglin' bones feel old today;
skin pulled tight around my face
like a skeleton hanging on a telephone wire.
Waiting for a call that never comes;
waiting for the sleep that is still a mystery.
Funny, they call the living the lucky ones.

Funny, they call the living the lucky ones.
(the lucky ones)

The lucky ones.
(the lucky ones)

The lucky ones.

Funny, they call the living the lucky ones.

Big Yellow Taxi

Bob Dylan

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