Ego in a Bag

I came home last Sunday morning,
left my tension in the doorway.
I came home to you with my ego in a bag,
but unlike my dirty laundry,
it can't be washed or ironed out.

Tucked away,
So I lock the door and drift off to that place,
Not even you can reach me here,
I'm on on my own.

Down for the count,
but I'll be on my feet again someday,
And I'll be writing with the one I call my love.

There's a flame, a feeling,
burning in the palm of my hands,
everytime I try to see myself through your eyes.
And in the dark I keep on reaching,
for your comfort and your love.
For your love,
still I know that there's nothing you can do,
Oh, not even you can reach me here
I'm on my own.

Down for the count,
but I'll be on my feet again someday,
And I'll be writing with the one I call my own.

I could sleep and but still be tired,
I could eat but still feel hungry,
Have a drink but I know that bottle is a curse.
When the only thing that's working
is to drift off to the place, to the place,
'cause I know I'll be on my feet again someday,
And I'll be writing with the one I call my love.

Down for the count,
but I won't stay till you will count to ten,
I'll be back up again by then,
I'll try to find my way by then,
Maybe there's a time for us again, my love...
My love...