Burn After Writing

Here's to you, the same chords that I stole
From a song that I once heard
The same melody I borrowed from the void

I'd rather observe than structure a narrative
The characters are thin, the plot does not develop
It ends where it begins

It's on the screen, in paperbacks
In section Eight and cul-de-sacs
Electro haikus and drunk sonnets
Are moving me along, along

You cut my hair
You left red ink everywhere
Do my hands tell a story?
Is it boring?

You cut my hair
You left red ink everywhere
Do my hands tell a story?
Is it boring?

What I'd give to force your sigh
What I'd give to see you cry
What I'd give for your caress
To see your blue cotton dress
Balled up on the floor

Certain memories are the problem
Certain drunken lines are the shame
700 miles and four years
I can't fight the flame, and it burns

You cut my hair
You left red ink everywhere
Do my hands tell a story?
Is it boring?

You cut my hair
You left red ink everywhere
Do my hands tell a story?
Is it boring?

No, was I wishing on satellites? (Was I wishing on satellites?)
Tell me how you've been doing that trick (tell me how you've been doing that trick)
I'm just wishing the flame away (I'm just wishing the flame away)
Now I'm wishing the flame away