Second, third, and hundredth chances. Balancin' on breaking branches. Those eyes add insult to injury.
I can see you starin', honey, like he's just your understudy, like you'd get your knuckles bloody for me.
I miss your tan skin, your sweet smile so good to me, so right and how you held me in your arms that September night the first time you ever saw me cry.
So this is me swallowing my pride standing in front of you, saying I'm sorry for that night and I go back to December all the time.