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Tuesday,3 A.M
Once again I'm wide awake.
Waiting for time to mend this part of me
that keeps on breaking.
Newspapers I threw away,
washed the dishes in the sink.
3 A.M. on Tuesday,
I have too much time to think.
And I could call up to heaven,
I could crawl down to hell,
Nothing changes the way things are and
nothing ever will.
He thinks I can't hear him crying
I pretend that I don't know, or
about all those 3 A.M.'s he spends wrestling with your ghost.
I hear him call up to heaven,
I watch him crawl down to hell,
He's not getting over you,
I know he never will.
Nothing he says can bring you back,
He's got nothing left to show
But a pocket watch and memories of a kiss out in the snow.
I hear him call up to heaven,
I watch him crawl down to hell.
He's not getting over you,
I know he never will.
I hear him call up to heaven,
I watch him crawl down to hell.
He's not getting over you,
I know he never will.
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