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Мочалов Пётр This Ford

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This '78 Ford's been retired to the grass
Where the paint fades slow and the chrome won't last
The keys still hang on a nail by the door
But I ain't turned that engine over in a year or more
It's not the miles or the rust that keeps it parked
It's the ghost in the passenger seat, faintly sparked

There's a coffee stain on the bench seat, faded brown
From a Sunday morning, driving back to town
Your laughter used to bounce right off these glass
Now it's just an echo every time I pass
And the rearview mirror holds a different face
But sometimes, in the twilight, I still see your trace

They say time's a healer, a river running deep
Washing all the memories that we keep
But this old cab's a canyon, quiet and profound
Where every little sound is a ghost I've found

'Cause this truck is haunted by the might-have-beens
By the scent of your perfume and the trouble we got in
Every creek and groan of this old frame
Still whispers your forgotten name
It ain't a vehicle, it's a tomb on wheels
Carrying the weight of the heart it steals
Down every backroad memory we drove
With a ghost I'm too in love with to dislodge

That crack in the windshield from a Georgia stone
The night we argued but we didn't drive back home
We just sat in the silence, letting the heat decline
Till your fingers found my palm and fit in mine
Now that jagged line just catches the low sun
And points to all the running I should've done but never did

And I could sell it off, let the junkyard have its bones
Leave these memories buried under Tennessee stones
But turning loose of this rust and regret
Feels like the one true promise I ain't broken yet

Cause this truck is haunted by the might-have-beens the might-have-beens
By the scent of your perfume and the trouble we got in
Every creek and groan of this old frame
Still whispers your forgotten name
It ain't a vehicle, it's a tomb on wheels
Carrying the weight of the heart it steals
Down every backroad memory we drove
With a ghost I'm too in love with to dislodge

So here's to the ghosts that ride shotgun with you
To the love that dies but never quite gets through
To every dent and scratch that tells the tale
Of a love so real it was bound to fail
And the fool who still pays its rent
This truck is haunted by the might-have-beens
By the scent of your perfume and the trouble we got in
Every creek and groan
Whispers your forgotten
Name

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