Mission Street is a striking dark-eyed stranger

who speaks a language I don't know but long to learn

its cadences fall endlessly beyond the windowpane

as I sit as though awaiting some return



and my hands are cold tonight

I'm sleepless in this dark

forgetting what it was I came to find

and it seems that I've been wrong

more than I've been right

more than I've been right



Mission Street calls out to me by name

then hurries on before I've hardly turned my head

promises of answers muttered underneath her breath

like an offering of contraband misread



and my hands are cold tonight

on the strings of this guitar

looking for the chords of what I've left behind

and it seems that I've been wrong

more than I've been right

more than I've been right



Mission Street is alive at every hour

like I've never been and feared I may not ever be

a light so steady on the mountains in the distance

a solitude so deep it might awaken me



well my hands are cold tonight

but the sky is bright with stars

and I'm tearing through the veil that keeps me blind

and it seems the more I'm wrong

the more that I am right

the more that I am right






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