I know it’s a silly cliché
like tennis shoes and pink chardonnay
I know it doesn't mean much
until you dissect definitions
and change all the names.
I know it doesn't mean much.

But don't put off till tomorrow
What you put on me yesterday
Take it off.
Spend the day.
Cross the line.
Make a change.
But don't, don't leave again.
Don't walk that way.
It's off a cliff... It's in the rain...

Just hold my wrist and,
Pull on this, man.
I know it's a silly cliché,
it'll all be okay, though.
When i say that I don't mean the torture.
I don't mean the pain.
I don't mean you'll enjoy that brand
of emotional agony
like you think.

I mean eventually.
I mean someday.
I mean months from now,
you'll have a happy day.
And why would you miss that?
For a few weeks of rain...

For a few nights by computer screens,
Instead of a candle flame.
The ghostly hue of a monitor
as she compliments your unshaven face,
may get you though.

She'll brush her fingers along her collar bone,
She'll leave virtual kisses along your unblemished throat,
She'll beg you to ravage her body,
To pillage her soul.
Just make it home.
Just make it home.

I know 2300 miles
is a lot of metric space.
A lot of distance to sift through
A lot of smog to complain to.
A lot of lonely hours,
A lot of speed we won't accelerate.

I know it's a silly cliché,
But I’d walk a thousand miles,
If you'd walk a thousand too,
and if that would make it sooner
than crossing the oceans and paying the moon.

I know this poem means nothing
To everyone who cries.
To children sleeping in unmade cribs
and an old woman alone as she dies.
and I know it's a silly cliché.
Just make it through.