And it's a slow dancing sinking urgency.
Coming in the morning it sparks, a late night of thinking.
Turns you around.
Slips through your fingers before you get down low enough.
It was stolen in a silk sheet bed.
Back of your head where it rests with a framework of friends.
Half on a strangers thread, the needle takes again.
Glowing in the night, some of us young and sweet like honey.
Or shocked to the bone, a bleeding dream.
A walking cliche, how can you know if its to blame for the sour taste.
Don't try to fight the mirage,
It's setting our eyes on fire,
Keep blinking, sinks into nothing.
A desert too try.
It slips through your fingers
Before you can let go of mine.
It was old until it all made sense,
Back of your head where it rests in the place you know best.
Half on a strangers thread, the needle takes again
Glowing in the night, some of us young and sweet like honey.
Or shocked to the bone, a bleeding dream.
A walking cliche, how can you know if its to blame for the sour taste.
A strong comment here is specific: the phrase you keep hearing, the mood you come back for, or the reason this song stays in rotation.
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