I was walking home to my house through the snow from the station
When springsteeen came clear in my headphones with a pertinent question.
Oh is love really real and can any of us hope for redemption?
Or are we all merely biding our time down to the lonely conclusions?

Darling let me take your hand as I talk you through this,
How loneliness edged into deep seated psychosis.
Lying awake in crowded hotels rooms focussed on tape hiss,
With my failings laid clear on the ceiling, I don’t think I can do this.
I don’t think I can do this.

I’ve tried so hard to not turn into my father,
But if I only ever skip out his choices, will I ever choose better?
Oh the sad truth is that the grass, it will always seem greener,
So I left you alone in a restaurant in london in winter.
You deserve better.

Adam trask is on my back and in my ears.
And the sound comes clear and brings the awful truth:
That I can’t stand what I’ve done to you.
It’s written clear in my diary:
Today should’ve been our anniversary.
But I’m far away and I’m far apart,
And you’re back home with a broken heart,
And love is real and I can’t escape:
I only ever have myself to blame.

These failures shift and shake me in the night,
Like a fever I can’t break, try as I might.
Wake me darling, I need you to take me home,
But I know that in the end redemption is mine, and mine alone.

So if each of us is made up of a tally of mistakes and successes,
Then that hour in that restaurant makes my score less than impressive.
But each can be redeemed by the courage with which he confesses
So darling, I miss you, your music, and your musk and your kisses.

I don’t think I can do this.