This is us on a western Atlantic coast:
with no place to be, just taking in the sea.
Tonight with a constant buzz,
staring at the ocean crashing
on all the rocks below
in this foreign home.

This old story:
When we're gone I feel I'd never miss anyone
You lay in the grass along the edge

"Is this a dream?"
you ask, and I don't say anything
because it may be a dream.

And we come to this place
like two convicts that have escaped
from the prison of everyday
and for the moment we have our stay.

You know tomorrow comes like disease to us.

From this cliff's edge gulls fly below us,
diving into the sea below us.

And I'm not cold tonight beside you.
And we're not cold tonight.

This old story:
When we're gone I feel I'd never miss anyone
This old story:
Expatriate, you're coming home.