I find the map and draw a straight line
|
Over rivers, farms, and state lines
|
The distance from here to where you'd be
|
It's only finger-lengths that I see
|
I touch the place where I'd find your face
|
My finger in creases of distant dark places
|
|
I hang my coat up in the first bar
|
There is no peace that I've found so far
|
The laughter penetrates my silence
|
As drunken men find flaws in science
|
|
Their words mostly noises
|
Ghosts with just voices
|
Your words in my memory
|
Are like music to me
|
|
I'm miles from where you are,
|
I lay down on the cold ground
|
I, I pray that something picks me up
|
And sets me down in your warm arms
|
|
After I have travelled so far
|
We'd set the fire to the third bar
|
We'd share each other like an island
|
Until exhausted, close our eyelids
|
And dreaming, pick up from
|
The last place we left off
|
Your soft skin is weeping
|
A joy you can't keep in
|
|
I'm miles from where you are,
|
I lay down on the cold ground
|
And I, I pray that something picks me up
|
and sets me down in your warm arms
|
|
And miles from where you are,
|
I lay down on the cold ground
|
and I, I pray that something picks me up
|
and sets me down in your warm arms
|
|
-cimderella-
|
|
-----------------
|
Set The Fire To The Third Bar
|
| Martha Wainwright |
