A couple plates and a pair of cups, barely touched

My fingertips and a paisley cloth on the tabletop

I face the face of the ticking clock in the arid dusk

They took the pages and teared it up, fair enough

If the cracks don't move

Then the leaks won't too

It's a thatched hut roof

And the moon peeks through

I chip the paint with my fingernail off the chair I'm in

I face the ticking face of the clock in the tearing wind

A couple plates and a pair of cups, barely touched

They took the pages and teared it up, fair enough

If the cracks don't move

Then the leaks won't too

It's a thatched hut roof

And the moon peeks through

But the cracks just grew

And the creaks aren't new

And if that's all true

Then a latch won't do