You left your typewriter
at my apartment
Straight from the Tortured
Poets Department
I think some things I never say
Like “Who uses
typewriters anyway?”
But you’re in self-sabotage mode
Throwing spikes down on the road
But I’ve seen this episode
And still loved the show
Who else decodes you?
And who’s gonna hold you like me?
And who’s gonna know
you. if not me?
I laughed in your face and said.
“You’re not Dylan Thomas.
I’m not Patti Smith.
This ain’t the Chelsea Hotel.
We’re modern idiots.”
And who’s gonna hold you like me?
Nobody.
Nofuckinbody.
Nobody.
You smoked then ate seven
bars of chocolate
We declared Charlie Puth
should be a bigger artist
I scratch your head, you fall asleep
Like a tattooed Golden Retriever
But you awaken with dread
Pounding nails in your head
But I’ve read this one
Where you come undone
I chose this cyclone with you.
And who’s gonna hold you like me?
And who’s gonna know
you like me?
I laughed in your face and said.
“You’re not Dylan Thomas.
I’m not Patti Smith.
This ain’t the Chelsea Hotel.
We’re modern idiots.”
And who’s gonna hold you like me?
Nofuckinbody.
Nobody.
Nobody.
Sometimes I wonder if you’re
gonna screw this up with me
But you told Lucy you’d kill
yourself if I ever leave
And I had said that to Jack
about you so I felt seen
Everyone we know understands
Why it’s meant to be
Cause we’re … Crazy.
So tell me
Who else is gonna know me?
At dinner you take my ring off my
middle finger and put it on the one
people put wedding rings on
And that’s the closest I’ve
come to my heart exploding
Who’s gonna hold you?
Me.
Who’s gonna know you?
Me.
Written by Taylor Swift, Jack Antonoff
©2023 TASRM Publishing