I've been careless with my questions. Worn my burdens like a halo. Held my hopes like broken limbs. Traded peace for backward glances. Babe, you're the one who called us fighters.
Are you carried by a restless wind?. Does it saddle you with brave ideas?. With battle scars and souvenirs,. To hang across your shoulder blades.. . Oh if you're hot as the sun,.
When morning took form. As the silhouette of a man. I could not turn my head. I could not stop trembling. I could not stop trembling. I could not stop trembling.
Sweet deception. Oh cruel, cruel, cruelest comfort. I have known the first. I have known the last. Of your kind. Sweet deception. My one consolation. Shall I find my rest.
To take you in. Is to feel a great sadness. Is to hold a great hope. Heavy in my chest. To let you go. Is to lose my balance. Is to fall into silence.
Our bodies still as photographs. Beg the ground to swallow us. And press our lonesome silhouettes into the dirt. Light reflecting off your face. Casting colors on your cheeks.
Secrets spun as thin as summer threads. Hidden in the hems of summer dresses. "It's only skin, warming skin," you said. Innocence can bow and kiss your forehead.
Oh red moon. A warm glow. To where we'll go from here. I do not know. . A porch light. A bitter song. For whom the caring words. I cannot tell. . I would.
I have carried These south. Many seasons. They're pulling by these. Bargaining my smile. And when you're eyes come rushing. Up to greet them. I cast them all to.
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Try as I may to carve my path. I cannot keep myself from stumbling back to you. . And you'll say "Don't you ever lose you heat". "Don't you ever be caught shedding your skin too soon".
My love is fierce. Leaving your limbs barefoot and honey-wild. Perhaps my dear. I am no dove, I am no shade of blue. Clear as any story-time will tell you.
When the moon carves a trail down the pine-bearded hills. And a ghost-wind hollers to the early morn. And the starlings return to the old sugar mill. Stealing their corn from the grower's field.
Late when the night has swollen. And the edge of the sky is bruised. I'll wonder if the scene is cast. By accident or by design. We will leave our feather lungs, as nameless as when we arrived,.
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