You talk about life, you talk about death,
And everything in between, Like its nothing, and the words are easy.
You talk about me, and you talk about you, And everything I do,
Like its something, that needs repeating. I dont need an alibi or for you to realize,
The things we left unsaid, Are only taking space up in our head.
Make it my fault, win the game Point the finger, place the blame
It does me up and down,
It doesnt matter now.
Cause I dont care if I ever talk to you again.
This is not about emotion, I dont need a reason not to care what you say,
Or what happened in the end. This is my interpretation,
And it dont, dont make sense.
The first two weeks turn into ten,
I hold my breath and wonder when itll happen, Does it really matter?
If half of what you said is true, And half of what I didnt do could be different,
Would it make it better? If we forget the things we know.
Would we have somewhere to go?
The only way is down, I can see that now.
Its really not such a sacrifice
And it dont have to make no sense to you at all,
Cause this is my interpretation, yeah, yeah, yeah