We're the same sort of people. We'll give and give and give,
Because we want to.
But the moment it becomes something expected of us, something we ought to do,
Anything that feels like it's closing in on us just a tad,
We'll shift uncomfortably and want to run.

And we'll ask if it's just us.
We'll wonder desperately if there's something wired wrongly with us,
That we can't seem to handle the everyday that people breeze through.
But it's not.

Except, I can't believe that it's going to feel like it's just me soon.
Though I figure now, you probably felt like that for the longest time.

No one else's leaving feels even a fraction as bad as yours.
Because they've, we've, you've got a world of different reasons.
But it's sorta the same with us, and I know that while you must, it stings.

I am impossibly happy for you, but no one else is going to get it-
This, and all it brings.
They don't give a hoot. They're not half as emotionally attached.
I'm not saying they don't like work,
I'm saying they feel different.

That's why we think it through, and it still hurts to let go.
That's why we stay to tie up loose ends,
To wrap things up before we take our leave.
And that's why we'll always come back.

I'm a few steps behind you now.
And love it as I do, I know I can't stay. You could've told me that,
I think you might have already in fact.
It kills me to think this, admit this, know this.
But well.


I'll see you on the other side babe,
We're the same sorta people after all.