| There’s a voice that pulls me stumbling through a symphony
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| And the less of it I need, the more I get
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| 'Til I’m swept up by the shape of all the centuries
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| Like an echo in the chambers of my chest
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| I think she fears I’ll be a servant to my history
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| Or worse, a slave to someone else’s misplaced doubts
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| So I try too hard to kill what’s out to kill me
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| 'Til I’m blind and hiding in the lion’s mouth
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| And the words she aches to hear pour through my canyon
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| And they’re singing in the caverns of my limbs
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| And though I do my best to try to understand them
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| They only follow me like vultures in the end
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| I once read that I should write something worth reading
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| Or I should do something worth writing about
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| And as my ears they buzz like bees upon the ceiling
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| I start to pour a little more than I’m allowed
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| I said our hearts know deeper seasons than our memories
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| She said «this harvest might sustain us for a year»
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| And of all the thousand ways the world could tempt me
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| I’ve never met a better fighter than her fear
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| So as I try to breathe the air that she is breathing
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| And we dance a lightless dance upon my floor
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| I am burning to tell her she’s all i’m needing
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| But i’m drowned out by all the noise outside the door
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| Carried by the current of the morning
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| Miles below the surface of the dawn
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| This is not the place that I was born in
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| But it doesn’t mean it’s not the place where I belong |