Every time you feed me the question that
I'm hungry for, I find my mouth full, chewing.
How do I tell you what's on my mind
when I've already watched this crash course
ending a hundred times and I still turn the ignition?
Baby, I'm not huffing and puffing
that's just me shoving air between my
heart and my nerves; that's just my
lungs damning my heart for this beating.
And I'm not saying anyone has fault,
because it's hard to fault emotions,
it's hard to fault drunken second guesses
when fingertips do all the thinking and
lips are too busy with kissing, for talking.
I say we are the same and you say,
"No, that you let people in and don't let them
know, but I let them know, but not it,'
but baby, nobody knows anything.
We only feel
And when I feel that wall at the
ending for the 101st time I wonder
what it is that you feel, because sometimes
not trusting feels so much like trusting,
because sometimes regret feels like desire
and sometimes closing down feels like
A wise woman once said to me,
"It just sounds like you're just
afraid to commit, not to her, or a woman,
man, you're afraid of life."