I know a girl with cuts on her legs. I think that she hates the way she was made, but we never spoke of why they were there, I just squeezed them and kissed them til we both felt a bit better.

And now Ive returned to the town where she dwells; that cold lonely cabin her grandfather built, I suppose thats where shes imprisoned herself, to write all those words shes too scared to tell those sad, short stories of a girl curled up in her shell.

Night and day she tends to her bar. She pours the drinks, they pour out their hearts. All that sorrow and alcohol weighs hard on her thoughts, so she writes them down.she loves them all.

And when wed make love shed stare in my eyes. I swore we had met a thousand times. Thousands of lives, thousands of nights. Shes written of it a thousand lines.

Night and day she tends to her bar. She pours me a drink for my parched heart. All my sorrows in alcohol she holds up the cup to my cracked lips for a kiss.