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Mission Street is a striking dark-eyed stranger Who 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 return
And 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 right
Mission 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 misread
And 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 right
Mission Street is alive at every hour Like I've never been and feared I may not ever be A light so steady on the mountains in the distance A solitude so deep it might awaken me
Well 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
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