Ten-Cent Conversations

I can't stand the small talk, the ten-cent conversations

in the same three haunted buildings my father would attend.

And I can't stand the feeling that I'm running out of time,

or all the random wall decor and flashing neon signs.

Don't ask me how I'm doing.

Don't ask me how I've been.

Ask me what I'm scared of,

or if I think God exists.

'Cause no one that I know has the money or the time

for ten-cent conversations in the prime of their lives.

Now I'm looking out the window at a life I could've lived,

coming home each evening just like my father did.

A steady job and kids.

A pretty little miss.

But I'm a mess.

A lovely mess.

But hey, we can't all have it all figured out.

I'll tell you when it's all figured out.

I'll call you up, and you can meet me

in our favorite haunted building.

I'll ask you how you're doing,

and we'll have ten-cent conversations

all night long.