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Crave, desolate
You dive in, we follow along
I contrive you with whiskey and Sam Cooke songs
And we lay on our backs
Soaking wet below a static TV set
Conversation flows
Counting shooting stars and catfish
But I'll never make a wish
Barefoot, parking lot
Getting high in Portland, Oregon
Echo 17, we glue it back and poke fun
And it gets real quiet, I don't care
Darting with moonshine, truth or dare
And I say just what I'm thinking and second guess instantly
And you laugh at me
We stick to our slow motion memory
It's one in the morning and 90 degrees
And though now it is hovering darkly over me
It'll look just like heaven when I get up and leave
You're a ghost and I can't breathe

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American Weekend


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