It was a Thursday night in June when he first came to you,
With eyes that spoke of carnivals and streams,
Like an island, how his gilded words they clung to you,
And took you places you had longed for in your dreams,
And you were drawn to all his casual bravado,
And a depth that flickered bright beneath his smile,
And it wasn't long before I knew you'd follow,
I think I knew before you'd even crossed the line,
Josephine, now the music's never playing in this house when I come home,
Or so it seems,
Josephine, are you running out on me?
And how it burns to knwo you'll share the life that we once did,
Talk a language and a laughter all your own,
Spend winters by a slowly burning fire,
And all your summers on a lover's ocean road,
Josephine, now the music's never playing in this house when I come home,
Or so it seems,
Josephine, are you running out on me?
My hollow child,
This hollow cry,
My hollow life,
This hollow crime,
My hollow child,
This hollow life,
My hollow cry,
Josephine, now the music's never playing in this house when I come home,
Or so it seems,
Josephine, are you running out on me?
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