| LA is hot as fuck
|
| And Manchester’s about to freeze
|
| You’re on your way to the mail
|
| To get a letter from me
|
| And as of our separation
|
| At the Ancienne Belgique
|
| I rock you every night
|
| In a bed across the sea
|
| Words are all we have for touch
|
| They are our fingers and I love our words so much
|
| Write your lips to kiss me now
|
| And I can taste you as I read your words out loud
|
| You rise and start your day
|
| With toast and black tea
|
| While I’m in the still of night
|
| And pushing back sleep
|
| And I ride the hands of the clock
|
| Till they fall upon three
|
| And drop me in your virtual garden for elevenses
|
| Words are all we have for touch
|
| They are our fingers and I love our words so much
|
| And write your hands between my legs
|
| And I can feel you as the words jump from the page
|
| The sky is bruised, it’s a lusty dusk
|
| With lovers rouge, wet with sap and musk
|
| Under you, under dream spell dust
|
| And it’s true, and I know that I must
|
| And with you, I immediately trust
|
| And it’s so, that I fell at first blush
|
| And it’s snowing in Australia
|
| Just now, your letter came
|
| And the pages did say
|
| That you’ll fly from your home to mine
|
| On January 8th
|
| And just now, I find that I can just barely wait
|
| And from now until that time
|
| I’m counting down the days
|
| Words are all we have for touch
|
| They are our fingers and I love our words so much
|
| And write yourself inside me now
|
| And I can feel you as the words come pouring out
|
| And words are all we have for touch
|
| They are our fingers and I love our words so much
|
| And write your dreams out line by line
|
| And I will stitch them in this heart of mine
|
| It’s me
|
| I’m in Australia |