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Visiting our place doesn’t make me feel at home anymore.
Our place doesn’t bring back happy memories.
For I am now one with new roots, a new life
And even though I don’t quite feel at home there either,
I sure as hell don’t feel comfortable here.
Visiting our place just left me feeling empty.
I’m haunted by memories of the things we did before
Back when we were younger and totally care-free.
And it really just leaves me wishing
That, for a while, we could be teenagers again.
We could be dancing around the rain-soaked parking lot,
Drinking chocolate milkshakes past midnight at the bar.
Piling in your car, indie music playing as loud as it would go.
Windows down, hair in the breeze, the feeling of crisp air.
Care-free and worry-less as we drove along.
But now our place is just not the same.
There are new children’s faces smiling in the window
As I look in on a rainy, chilly night.
I know that having this place as our own,
Well, that time has passed, and we won’t get it back.
New generations have taken over the haunts
New kids with new dreams and paths and traditions.
And the leather, worn down from years of sitting
In the same damn booth night after night after night
Has since been torn out and replaced.
And our old place doesn’t make me feel at home anymore
These old booths belong to someone else’s memories
As sad as that may be, the needing to move on,
I can think of something just a little bit worse.
Because I have yet to find a new one.
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