You push away saints and hide behind sinners
Concerned with pricey wines and cold private dinners
Brown eyes widen as we grow thinner

Roads are lined with orange cones
Warning signs on my way home
Her stitching hour has spun a web of rag and bone

They say you’re sharp, Sharp as a tack
Sharp as your nails across my back
Born with broken eyes And a head of glass
Legs too short to outrun your past

Gripping the wheel on a fog-blinded coast
I know you the least but I miss you the most
What kind of lies must I tell to wake up next to you?

They say you’re sharp, Sharp as a tack
Sharp as your nails across my back
Born with broken eyes And a head of glass
Legs too short to outrun your past

Water-logged and seasick maidens
Eyes peeled for treetop beacons

They say you’re sharp, Sharp as a tack
Sharp as your nails across my back
Born with broken eyes And a head of glass
Legs too short to outrun your past