Oh, I recognize your footsteps, I don't need to hear your voice
When the creaking of the floorboards is clear as any noise
It's the patter of a spirit, that's returning to its home
It's so familiar when I hear it, I'd mistake it for my own
And I beg you not to wake me, in my dreams I can pretend
I'm walking through the snow with you again
How I wish that muscle memory would escort me to your door
Like the moves that have been printed on a dance studio floor
Or the outlines on the pavement, drawn by children with their chalk
But my legs are made of concrete and my shoes are cinderblocks
I'm divebombing through the clocktower in the vacancy of light
The day's dawning in a half hour, to deliver us from night
How much longer will falling feel like flight?
At the top of your dark stairwell, there's a step less than I'd known
And my foot drops like a hammer and my heart skips like a stone
