You follow the footsteps echoes leading down a hall to a room.
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There is music playing tiny bells with moving parts.
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Here the shadows make things ugly, an effect quite undesirable.
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The bold and yellow daylight grows like ivy across the wall
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And it bounces off of the painted porcelain, tiny dancing doll.
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Her body spins, as she pirouettes again, the world suddenly seems small.
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On an off white, subtle morning you stretch your legs in the front seat.
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And the road has made a vacuum where our voices used to be.
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And you lay your head onto my shoulder, pour like water over me.
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So if I just exist for the next ten minutes of this drive that would be fine.
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And all these trees that line this curb would be rejoicing and alive.
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Soon all the joy that pours from everything makes fountains of your eyes
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Because you finally understand the movement of a hand waving good-bye.
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The Movement Of A Hand
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| Bright Eyes |
