| She likes candles and cut flowers, rearranging them for hours
|
| And as she’s lost in thought, I see the girl she was
|
| I watch her standing in the kitchen
|
| Snipping stems off with her scissors
|
| And humming out a love song, like she always does
|
| Then the flowers go in vases that appear in all the places
|
| That gives the world around her, a little woman’s touch
|
| And she’s the kind of woman, every woman wants to be like
|
| And every man like me can’t live without
|
| Next she changes out the candles that have melted on the mantles
|
| From the party that she hosted, just some nights ago
|
| Then the round one on the piano, its unusual for the deep glow
|
| That emanates inside it, when the wick is low
|
| And the tall ones by the window, that she likes because the soft glow
|
| Gives the room a feeling that she’s not alone
|
| And when she’s not around you, you feel like something’s missing
|
| But the candles and the flowers say she’s there
|
| She likes dinners with old friends, late-night calls that come from girlfriends
|
| She’ll listen and tell them, if they’re wrong or right |
| Later on she’ll draw a hot bath, light a candle, play some soft jazz
|
| Melt down in the bubbles, and the candlelight
|
| Before bed she likes some white wine, says it helps her mind to unwind
|
| As she reads a little while and drifts off in the night
|
| And as she lies there sleeping, I can’t believe she loves me
|
| But when she says she loves you, you feel loved
|
| She likes candles and cut flowers, rearranging them for hours
|
| And as she’s lost in thought, I see the girl she was |