Who am I to sing a love song?
I hold myself away.
Listen to the sound of a house running.
Well, all houses are the same.
And all the sadness in your heart
won't bring me back to you.
Doesn't it make you wonder
how a love so easily made could shy
beneath November's harvest moon.
Dark in a stranger's open kitchen.
I stripped you to your bare feet.
Oh, I look so foolish now,
thinking of every thing that I did.
Tell me I was pretty at the time.
I'm afraid for you to hear me say these words.
It's the same with everyone that I hurt.
But I will try to remember how you wandered away
to follow some long echo of a bird.
But all the sadness in your lonesome countryside
won't bring me back to life.
Trust me, you don't want me around.
I'm too always fond of leaving,
I'm too fond of always leaving you.