i might stay in tonight
and write you a letter
about my day, my week,
and the fickle tennessee weather
and i'll tell you all about
how i think about new england
when i need to think
about home

and this dying time has frozen in the air
and it will certainly deaden my face
if i wander too far beyond
the only door that leads from this place
but i feel an out-of-season fever
and its catching hold
like a greying face in a mirror, dying to know,
"god, when did i get so old?"

but it's not what you think
i'll get over it soon
it's not what you think
i still love you

and it took two years
to dig this soft, deep gully in the ground
but we packed our shit, we walked away from it,
and now just look at me, i'm cowering back down
so tonight i don't feel like sitting in this room
tonight i won't feel like feeling lost without you
with the moonlight shining its television glare
on the girl with the drowning eyes and the golden hair

and it's not what you think
i'll get over her soon
and its not what you think
i still love you
and it's not what you think
i'll get over her soon
and it's not what you think
i still love you
you're just being a girl.