I'm not really sure where I'm going,
how long I'll be gone. All I know is that
I need to get away from here,
to get away from the place where our memories lie.
And not only am I running low on gas,
I'm running low on oxygen.

It's hard to keep breathing, hard to keeping beating,
when you're not here to catch me when I fall.

Like a shooting star I fire down
the velvet skies in hopes
of being caught, being put into your pocket.
Instead I crash down into Tim-buck-two
where my only friend
is old Mrs. Churchmouse,
so quiet you'd mistake for death.

And I look around with my glossy eyes
in wishes of possibly seeing your face.
But with time my glow starts to fade,
and I sink deeper into the whirl pool of despair.
My car won't start, the engine just won't rev.
I wonder: how long have I been here?

It's hard to keep breathing, hard to keeping beating,
when you're not here to help me back up.

And once again, I'm left alone on the shoulder of 151
watching life pass me by at 65 miles an hour.
You're at least 3,000 miles away by now -
while I'm stuck in yesterdays and lonely todays
trying to jump start my life, with no one to help;

Old Mrs. Chruchmouse just won't seem to wake ...