If I could do it over again . . .

If I could bury it all, I would
take every morsel of care
every last chance
every first chance
every sideways glance
of hatred or attraction, ‘cause I never know the difference
and every lonely dance
with the songstress on my radio

Crosseyed, I clinch the hand of a phantom
she takes me around corners
in my head, and on the streets
I walk with abandon
and no shoes

"I know" is not "I love you"
no matter how it's said,
or how much I want it to be.
Crosseyed, I clinch the hand of a phantom
she takes me around corners

she hates it when I repeat myself
I know
Crosseyed, I clinch the hand of a phantom

but I want no part of it
the voices in my verses don’t sing!
they preach!
every honey-tongued syllable
clinches the hand of a phantom
Crosseyed.