baking bread, melting time.

[ephishz]

I have ash in my jeans,
Watching the road swing.
And I know that we won’t make a dent.
We won’t change a thing.
Does it bother me?
Have I sold out old dreams?
No, I suppose it’s somewhat sweet.
You and me and the smell of your car,
Holding my burning out the window,
Thinking about our alter egos and other lives.
There’s time left for the changing.
There’s time left for old dreams.
Do you know me now?
Or are we frozen, sweetly sincerely frozen,
In a town, in a time, in the smell of your car.
You, my dear old friend, are the best of what I have left.
But this place is a strange, breathing memory.
This place is sweetly sincerely frozen.
And I, warmed by something else, am only passing through.