Stay awake, for me?
Stay awake, for me?
She doesn't say it, not really.
But her hands are searching for her contour brush
and she spent forty minutes straightening her hair
and her dress is short and those are heels on her feet
and we both know she wouldn't bother with any of that
if she was expecting to come back sober.
Stay awake, for me?
She doesn't say it, not really.
But this town is small and new
and heaven knows that she's impulsive
and that midnight phone calls have saved her more than once
and I'd go with her if my own anxiety would let me.
Stay awake, for me?
She doesn't say it, not really.
But I hear it anyway in the way she smiles.
She's not as fearless as she seems,
so I'll blast my music as loud as I can without bothering the rest of the floor,
so I'll do my homework slower and more thoroughly than I would otherwise,
so I'll wait for her to walk through the door,
or that text telling me to call her so that she can pretend that it's her mom.
Stay awake, for me?
Oh, darling, I always will.