And it came to me then that every plan Is a tiny prayer to father time. As I stared at my shoes in the ICU that reeked of piss and 409 and I rationed my breaths as I said to myself that I’ve already taken too much today. As each descending peak on the LCD took you a little farther away from me, away from me.

Amongst the vending machines and year-old magazines, in a place where we only say goodbye, it stung like a violent wind that our memories depend on a faulty camera in our minds and I knew that you were a truth I would rather lose than to have never lain beside at all. And I looked around at all the eyes on the ground as the TV entertained itself.

‘Cause there’s no comfort in the waiting room, just nervous pacers bracing for bad news. And then the nurse comes ‘round and everyone lift their heads but I’m thinking of what Sarah said:
that love is watching someone die.

So who’s gonna watch you die? So who's gonna watch you die?

Death cab for cutie, Plans.

Etiquetas: la música me mata