Remember at sixteen all the crazy drunken nights we had. When I kissed you in the hallway, then I took you straight the bed. Oh, two years on (or three), but I'm still the girl that I was.
(Why can't we just rewind?)
All that love, all that imaginary love is still there, waiting for something to come up, waiting for the story to continue. Or maybe waiting for the signal to get burned.
