The people from the buildings 
Are running to their cars
As the rain it pours hard on the boulevard

There's posters in the gutters
I see workers stacked in streetcars
On the lonesome dark ride 
That takes them back where they belong

Is it cold in your bed when I'm not there

I trace highways with my fingers
As cities shrink from airplanes
I stare out the window 
And dream of her

As I'm in the arms of strangers
In times of no real danger
On the twisted dark road 
That I confuse with home

Is it cold in your bed when I'm not there

Cuz I feel nothing at all
I don't feel I've done something wrong