The guest room is the best room for making mistakes,
in a tangle of odd-angled fingers and legs.
That girl was the right girl, but you met her too late,
and if it's a lie, well, that's still what you'll say.
The suitcase for the new age is chained to my arm,
and it counts down softly as my friends look on,
'cause that girl was the right girl but now she is gone.
The numbers slip closer to one.
There are no successes or failures to blame;
successes and failures are one and the same.
For every one given, one's taken away,
and if that's a lie, well, that's still what I'll say.
