51 - Overgrow

The house that I grew up in is getting darker now these days

And the pictures on its walls got me shaking in my frame

'Cause it’s been four weeks since you left and I can’t escape the thought

Of that 4:30 phone call where she said, «Son, your father, he’s gone»

And I could hear her voice shake as I put my car in park

And as that panic slowly set in, my only thought was hanging up

I found myself sitting in traffic — mad as hell, alone with my thoughts

Of how I never said goodbye, or told you that I loved you enough

And as I pulled up onto the street where I grew up

The neighbors stood in silence, but their faces said enough

And as I stepped out onto the street I learned to walk

I realized the cop cars had all their sirens off

I spent some time in a dark booth in some shitty Brooklyn bar

Looking through old photographs and wondering where you are

I tried to write some words to speak in the front seat of a car

But the only thing that I could think of was, «How could I get to where you are?

And as I pulled up onto the street where I grew up

There was only a haunting silence that would the falling leaves disrupt

And as I climbed the steps to the house I learned to love

I felt the earth exhale the dirt and the roof caved in on us

I never thought that day in your garage

Would become the last time we talked

And I’m sorry I was busy the last time you called

There’s not a thing I wouldn’t give up for another chance to talk

Your girlfriend told us about your plans and your friends came by in waves

And all those words shared on tear-stained page echoed in one loud refrain

And as the color from the sky all ran into this shade of grey

I hope you know that I love you, and I’ll miss you more each day