Fishing for my keys outside of your front door
in the diesel dark slush of a cold November night.
The rumble of the wind absorbs every passing sound,
but somehow you've got me believing
in a silence that's not born of solitude,
but from compassion left just holding its breath.

But gravity won't fail to make its presence felt
or to wage war on unmedicated sleep.
Its merciless advance nudges me aside
into the sharp nape of a snowdrift.

But if I...
If I make it through this winter...
if I make it through this winter.
If I make it through this winter,
I think I'll be okay.

The few remaining birds, they leap from leafless trees
to circle right above us, and, you know,
their patterns are so strict, they seem etched into the sky.
Oh, you squawking, starving heralds
of impenetrable darkness all day long...
and of the chemicals that set with every sun.

So while drivers skid to stops and take down license plates,
their patience worn and weathered as their skills,
my own nerves bend and fray like branches glazed with ice...
until I see you trudging with me.

But if I...
If I make it through this winter...
if I make it through this winter.
If I make it through this winter,
I think I'll be okay.

Last year's robbery, this year's absent friends:
they all linger in the scars on every wall.
And there's nothing left to take; I found solace in that.
But now I need something worth losing.

If I,
if I make it through this winter...
if I make it through this winter.
If I make it through this winter,
I think I'll be okay.

I think I'll be okay.