In Plain English Testo

I play along to the drum of the quiver in your voice. It traces backwards to the night before. The race is on. The speech repeats down the line and yet avoids the finer details that dare not be recalled. A confession comes up to speed with indulgence under your wing, throwing caution to the wind and the head-ache you wake up beside. Don't come crying back so soon because you didn't think things through. There's so little I can do this time. Appalled on this call for so long. The receiver slams down upon one last request to be face to face. Like that will help now. Confession came up to speed, your penance- to sit and think. Die to keep me in return. Die to put this into words. Die in practiced, prepared lines. Die in prayer to pass the time. Nice try.