You stand by the rusted gate.
The movie screen is far too late.
You see a scrap of white and blue.
A folded wing that looks brand new.
The asphalt is cracked and grey.
The summer has slipped away.
The ticket booth is locked tight.
Under a pale winter light.
Paper flight in the oil rain.
Tracing a circle of old pain.
Folded tight but it came apart.
A little ghost of a heavy heart.
You touch the page with shaking hands.
The ink is blurred in salty bands.
A child's drawing of a yellow sun.
Before the long road had begun.
The asphalt is cracked and grey.
The summer has slipped away.
The ticket booth is locked tight.
Under a pale winter light.
Paper flight in the oil rain.
Tracing a circle of old pain.
Folded tight but it came apart.
A little ghost of a heavy heart.
I've driven this route for twenty years.
I've seen the laughter and the tears.
The drive-in died in eighty-four.
Nobody knocks on that wooden door.
The wind picks up the white debris.
It spins around like a rolling sea.
You hold your breath as the edges tear.
Floating away in the frozen air.
Paper flight in the oil rain.
Tracing a circle of old pain.
Folded tight but it came apart.
A little ghost of a heavy heart.
Step back inside the yellow cab.
The vinyl seat is cold and drab.
Leave the paper on the dirty ground.
Where the lost things are always found.
Paper flight in the oil rain.
Tracing a circle of old pain.
Folded tight but it came apart.
A little ghost of a heavy heart.
Close the door and slide the lock.
Listen to the ticking clock.
