Mission Street

Mission Street is a striking dark-eyed stranger

Speaks a language I don't know but long to learn

Its cadences fall endlessly beyond the windowpane

As I sit as though awaiting some returnAnd my hands are cold tonight, I'm sleepless in this dark

Forgetting what it was I came to find

And it seems that I've been wrong

More than I've been right, more than I've been rightMission Street calls out to me by name

Then hurries on before I've hardly turned my head

Promises of answers muttered underneath her breath

Like an offering of contraband misreadAnd my hands are cold tonight on the strings of this guitar

Looking for the chords of what I've left behind

And it seems that I've been wrong

More than I've been right, more than I've been rightMission Street is alive at every hour

Like I've never been and fear I may not ever be

A light so steady on the mountains in the distance

A solitude so deep it might awaken meWell, my hands are cold tonight, but the sky is bright with stars

And I'm tearing through the veil that keeps me blind

And it seems the more I'm wrong

The more that I am right, the more that I am right

Mission Street, Mission Street