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| | C | Cmaj7 |
| It's | knowing that your | door is always |
| | C6 | Cmaj7 | Dm | Dmmaj7 | Dm7 | Dmmaj7 |
| | open and your | path is free to | walk | | | |
| | Dm | Dmmaj |
| that | makes me tend to | leave my sleeping |
| | Dm7 | G7 | C | Cmaj7 | C9 | C |
| | bag rolled up and | stashed behind your | couch | | | |
| | C | Cmaj7 | C6 |
| And it's | knowing I'm not | shackled by forg | otten words and |
| | Cmaj7 | C | Cmaj7 | Dm | Dmmaj7 | Dm7 | Dmmaj7 |
| | bonds and the | ink stains that have | dried upon some | line | | | |
| | Dm | Dmmaj7 |
| That k | eeps you in the | backroads by the |
| | Dm7 | G7 | Dm |
| | rivers of my | mem'ry, that | keeps you ever |
| | G7 | C | Cmaj7 | C9 | C |
| | gentle on my | mind | | | |
| It's not clinging to the rocks and ivy |
| Planted on their columns now that bind me |
| Or something that somebody said |
| Because they think we fit together walkin'. |
| It's just knowing that the world will not be cursing or |
| Forgiving, when I walk along some railroad track and find |
| That you're moving on the backroads by the |
| Rivers of my mem'ry, and for hours you're just |
| Though the wheat fields and the clothes lines and the |
| Junkyards and the highways come between us, |
| And some other woman crying to her |
| Mother, 'cause she turned and I was gone. |