I've a theory of ghosts and I'm a monster to girls - I stick in their heart like a rusty spur.
But I've a theory of ghosts : they're alive and we're all dead; that they're trying to tell us that it's this way around.
And I've a theory of girls : they always seem to leave in the Spring, as if they know that it hurts more to carry a heartbreak through the Summer.
In the calendar storm, I circled a day and tried to hold on.
And in the last powercut, I whispered her name "˜til the lights came on.
Smoked my Indian pipe.
Listened to static, the snow on the wire.
Smoked my Indian pipe.
Listened to static, the snow on the wire.
I have one photograph that captures her smile but I don't have a tape of her laugh. Watercolours can't help me.