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51

by Overgrow

on The House You Made (2018)

The house that I grew up in is getting darker now these days
And the pictures on its walls got me shaking in my frame
'Cause it's been four weeks since you left and I can't escape the thought
Of that 4:30 phone call where she said, "Son, your father, he's gone"

And I could hear her voice shake as I put my car in park
And as that panic slowly set in, my only thought was hanging up
I found myself sitting in traffic - mad as hell, alone with my thoughts
Of how I never said goodbye, or told you that I loved you enough

And as I pulled up onto the street where I grew up
The neighbors stood in silence, but their faces said enough
And as I stepped out onto the street I learned to walk
I realized the cop cars had all their sirens off

I spent some time in a dark booth in some shitty Brooklyn bar
Looking through old photographs and wondering where you are
I tried to write some words to speak in the front seat of a car
But the only thing that I could think of was, "How could I get to where you are?"

And as I pulled up onto the street where I grew up
There was only a haunting silence that would the falling leaves disrupt
And as I climbed the steps to the house I learned to love
I felt the earth exhale the dirt and the roof caved in on us

I never thought that day in your garage
Would become the last time we talked
And I'm sorry I was busy the last time you called
There's not a thing I wouldn't give up for another chance to talk

Your girlfriend told us about your plans and your friends came by in waves
And all those words shared on tear-stained page echoed in one loud refrain
And as the color from the sky all ran into this shade of grey
I hope you know that I love you, and I'll miss you more each day