A photo of a friend, I've probably forgotten
An apple I pretend, is ripe instead of rotten
A shirt I never wear, and haven't fit for ages
A ketchum that I swear, is missing seven pages
Why do I hate to let them go?
Why does imagining it sting?
When in my head I know, I know
All they are is things
All they are is things
A letter that I mailed, well at least I meant to
A tape of nine inch nails, I probably should have sent to
A car that kind of runs, unless it's on an incline
We had ourselves some fun, for twenty years it's been mine
Why do I hate to let them go?
Why does imagining it sting?
When in my head I know, I know
All they are is things
All they are is things
I guess I'd like to see, them dusty on a shelf
Because to set them free, would be to lose myself
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