A cup may hold many things my love, half full of wine, half full of water. But in the end, even when it's dry, the cup still stands, not made by what it holds.
I want you to understand. This is a fraction of who I am. I can be light and funny and clever, or morose and sad or deep. I can be sexy, I can be full of myself; but beyond all of these rather superficial things, I am still me.
I want to love you. I want to let myself be. I want to give in to the current, but somehow here still I be.
But the past's already written, burned into the stone. The winters wind already taken, me from my summer home.
Painted nails and pine trees. Pictures of painted eggs and jealousy.
Hold your brown eyes up, my darlin, hold them high to see.
In the distance there could be a lover, who would hold you better than the wind holds me.
Pick me up into your arms, cradle me with light.
Wrap those things around me and kiss me perfectly into the night.
I want so many things, I want to be loved and held and free.
I want to be laughed with and yet hold the hand of silence as the sun covers me.
What makes up the covers on my bed.
More than warmth and wool and down.
I sleep under memories, and faith, distrust, longing and the long, low, silence after sound.
I find life is calling me, urging me out of my bed, but days still come when I am weak with heartsick loneliness, and I don't know how to answer, them.
Seventeen birds on a wire, they sing silently caught in the daybreak of desire.
Candle wax, leaked onto the sill, red like holiday wine, like lovers spent. Like time. Standing still.
I cannot stop and chase the dawn. I cannot wait, to carry on.
My life needs to not be held. It needs to live, in the light, in the vastness of dawn.
I am transported back into a time, on a towel in the summer sunshine. Do you remember this my love? With grass stains and swollen lips, we laughed up at the sun.
I want you to understand. This is a fraction of who I am. I can be light and funny and clever, or morose and sad or deep. I can be sexy, I can be full of myself; but beyond all of these rather superficial things, I am still me.
I want to love you. I want to let myself be. I want to give in to the current, but somehow here still I be.
But the past's already written, burned into the stone. The winters wind already taken, me from my summer home.
Painted nails and pine trees. Pictures of painted eggs and jealousy.
Hold your brown eyes up, my darlin, hold them high to see.
In the distance there could be a lover, who would hold you better than the wind holds me.
Pick me up into your arms, cradle me with light.
Wrap those things around me and kiss me perfectly into the night.
I want so many things, I want to be loved and held and free.
I want to be laughed with and yet hold the hand of silence as the sun covers me.
What makes up the covers on my bed.
More than warmth and wool and down.
I sleep under memories, and faith, distrust, longing and the long, low, silence after sound.
I find life is calling me, urging me out of my bed, but days still come when I am weak with heartsick loneliness, and I don't know how to answer, them.
Seventeen birds on a wire, they sing silently caught in the daybreak of desire.
Candle wax, leaked onto the sill, red like holiday wine, like lovers spent. Like time. Standing still.
I cannot stop and chase the dawn. I cannot wait, to carry on.
My life needs to not be held. It needs to live, in the light, in the vastness of dawn.
I am transported back into a time, on a towel in the summer sunshine. Do you remember this my love? With grass stains and swollen lips, we laughed up at the sun.
