Hey love your infection its spreading, this organ of bliss
not beating any more with a passion, only throbbing as a head, the
love I feel not congealing, the bleeding its all amiss, a
simple son is setting, the time we shared I miss.
So its country tunes I listen to, its all the flavors I couldn't stand, for
when your kicked out of heaven, you can't be a picky man.
When the soft light fades, when the banjo strums on and on, its
the other life I think of, its the moments surely gone.
I can't think of Paris, or the sand below my toes, I
can't listen to the coqui, or the sounds of things I love.
Its all ruined, broken, scattered, gone; I think 1/64th of me would agree,
I chumped it, its screwed - worse, you wont (can't) forgive or forget about me
I must have done a death march, I must have let the sadness win
I miss the time when resting heads on chests, only meant
that I was able to listen to the heartbeats - supple, true, amen.
So if you tend to get this, if the words sing true, I'm
sure you'll see the error, I'm sure you'll see the love for you.
For its not a failure rising, its not this world of sand; if
you have a ring, then forever I'll hold your hand.
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