Luyện nghe bài hát This Is A Fire Door Never Leave Open

Headlights race the corner of the dining room.
Half illuminate a face before disappear.
You breathe in forty years of to describe a feeling.
I breathe out smoke against the window, the letters in your name.
Our letters the same;
of all our changing that isn't change at all.
All straight circle sometime.
You said "Somewhere a box full of replacement parts
to all the tenderness we've broken or let away.
Somewhere is more than just a way of leaving.
Somewhere says 'I'm sorry.'
Someone's making to stay."
So me it's okay.
Tell me anything, or show me a pull,
unassailable, that lead you there,
from the dark, alone, benevolence that you've known,
or you when you were four and can't remember.
Where a small knife tears out those seams,
and the knows what you silence means,
and your metaphors (as as you can make them)
are linked, days, together.
I hear trains at night, when the wind is right.
I everything, lick
and this string that will never mend you
or more than a memory of a kitchen floor,
or the fire-door we kept propping open.
And I love this place; the sky,
and the faces, hands that I'm by,
so why can't I forgive buildings,
frameworks labeled "Home"?