it’s been eighteen months since i kissed you once,
so just saying “hi” just isn’t going to fly,
but if you give me a clue and a minute or two,
then i might remember your name.
and i hate to insist that i was really that p*ssed,
but to tell the truth, in my flush of youth,
i would drown my sight until faces and nights seemed the same.
and a nervous shrug and an awkward hug
won’t get me out of the hole that i’ve dug,
so i slip the noose with a poor excuse
and talk to someone, anyone else.
and i sit with my friends and i try to pretend
that i never did that sort of thing again,
but i’m lying to myself.
and suddenly it’s as clear as clear could be:
i’m not quite the perfect man that i hoped i’d be.
and though i always tried to live an honest life,
to tell my truth i’ve told my share of lies.
i remember you, of course i do,
but i don’t recall how many times we’ve been through
this little game, that always ends the same,
with you sad and me far away.
and every time i repeat the line
that the fault’s not mine and i wasn’t unkind.
but the worst part is that i’ve got nothing else to say.
and all the pretty little pictures of faith and firm devotion
that i painted as a child,
well they have fallen by the wayside, along with all my puppy-fat,
but my days have taught me this:
that every day i spend pretending that i always choose the right path
is a day that i choose the wrong.
oh yes my wisdom teeth have been giving me grief –
they woke me up to find that i’m exactly the kind of
guy i said that i’d rather be dead than be
in the days before i got laid.