i might stay in tonight   and write you a letter   about my day, my week,   and the fickle tennessee weather…   and i'll tell you all about   how i think about new england   when i need to think    about home      and this dying time has frozen in the air   and it will certainly deaden my face   if i wander too far beyond   the only door that leads from this place   but i feel an out-of-season fever   and its catching hold   like a greying face in a mirror, dying to know,   "god, when did i get so old?"      but it's not what you think   i'll get over it soon   it's not what you think   i still love you      and it took two years   to dig this soft, deep gully in the ground   but we packed our shit, we walked away from it,   and now just look at me, i'm cowering back down   so tonight i don't feel like sitting in this room   tonight i won't feel like feeling lost without you   with the moonlight shining its television glare   on the girl with the drowning eyes and the golden hair      and it's not what you think   i'll get over her soon   and its not what you think   i still love you   and it's not what you think   i'll get over her soon   and it's not what you think   i still love you…   you're just being a girl.