The slate is clean so
Give it like a year
Kill our love
And history
Meet me at the mourning tree,
You were the real thing
Can't die so easily,
All there is to do is
Bury, burn, bury
I'd rather live in the cold, dark dirt
Tangled in you
Vines growing through these silly
Grins on our faces,
Too huge for our smiles to contain.
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