It's knowing that your door is always open and you're about to spread a wall. That makes me tend to leave my sleeping bag, road up and stand behind your couch. And it's knowing I'm not shackled by forgotten words and puns and the instincts that have dried upon some line. That keeps you in the back roads by the rivers of my memory and keeps you ever gentle on my mind. It's not clinging through the rocks and eyes and planted on their columns now that binds me. Or something that somebody said because they thought we'd fit together walking. It's just knowing that the world will not be cursed enough, forgive it when I walk along some railroad track and find. That you're waving from the back roads by the rivers of my memory and for hours you just gentle on my mind. Though the wheat fields and the clothes lines and the junkyards and the highways come between us. And some other woman crying to her mother because she turned and I was gone. I still might run in silence to enjoy my state of pace and the summer sun might put me till I'm blind. But not to where I cannot see you walking on the back roads by the rivers flowing gentle on my mind. I did my cup of soup back from the googling crackling cold ridden some train yard. My beer of minko mild and dirty at the bootload across my face. Through cup tans round the tin can I pretend to hold you to my breast and find. That you're waving from the back roads by the rivers of my memory and for smiling never gentle on my mind. Every smiling never gentle on my mind. Every smiling ever gentle on my mind. You