I Hope I'm Wrong

Somewhere around 1 am on the western trail, I let my excesses get the better of me and I started to wax philosophically on the ins and outs of our youth. Could this be any more awkward? I don't know. I think that I think more when I'm in love, falling asleep on a stranger's house, counting down calendar days. The summer's over, and our routine's older. Nobody's wiser, and nobody's feeling the same as they did last summer, when plane rides were all the rage. I've still got my ticket stubs stuffed in my wallet. I can't compete with a continent, and I can't compete with time, but I'll try. This is either the last song for you or the first one for me. Missed me, missed me, now you gotta kiss me, but only if you mean it, and only if you know what it means to me. Let's end the question mark session with a statement I've been trying to write all day. To all of the thinkers and traveling singers, dorm-room philosophers at home or abroad, I leave you with one little piece of me before I go sending you off: I hope that I'm wrong.