The click of the front door
Your clothes left on the floor
Bike wheels still turning
Where you left them on the back lawn

Your voices recede and
Your fingers slip from my hand
White skies and silence
A lifeless wind burns through the Downland

And it's cold, cold, cold, cold, cold
When you're not home, home, home, home, home
I sit and stare, I sit and stare
Into my phone, phone, phone, phone, phone

I love that silver-grey first morning light
I see that fearless love in your blue eyes
Think I can picture some new shape of life
But now you're not home
No, you're not home, not home

And it's cold, cold, cold, cold, cold
When you're not home, home, home, home, home
I sit and stare, I sit and stare
Into my phone, phone, phone, phone, phone

I love that silver-grey first morning light
I see that fearless love in your blue eyes
Think I can picture some new shape of life
But now you're not home
No, you're not home

I love that silver-grey first morning light
I see that fearless love in your blue eyes
Think I can picture some new shape of life
But now you're not home
No, you're not home
Not home, no you're not home
Not home, no you're not home
Not home

No, you're not home

Copyright: Universal Music Publishing Group
Writer(s): Jesse Quin, Richard David Hughes, Thomas Oliver Chaplin, Timothy James Rice-Oxley