Home

Now, I've always thought home was a feeling
...but what if I was wrong,
and it turns out that home is a person,
when I thought that home was a song?
What of the home that you've felt like
since the fourteen-year-old us was dawning,
and the home of waking up beside you,
your hand slipped into mine with 'good morning'?

Tell me home,
tell me love,
tell me something real,
tell me golden ages await bright.

See, I thought that love was a feeling,
but what if it turns out I'm wrong,
and love is a cocktail of chemicals,
when I thought that love was a song?
What if my love is a downpour,
to become sad sharp pain at your hands,
and what if the ocean's a puddle,
and beached by debris, not golden sands?

Tell me home,
tell me love,
tell me something real,
tell me golden ages await bright.

Tell me when,
tell me true,
tell me how you feel
about living towards face to face goodnights.

Words This World

Don't you see it baby, laid out like the blueprint of a city,
shines pure platinum in the rain.
How can you say maybe
to the charm of avenues I see so plain?
I could've sworn my sanity,
this mutuality I held so sure;
I would've signed my life away
on certainty I didn't love you more.

You don't regret it baby, no you don't,
we could forget it happened but we won't.
You don't regret it honey, not a thing;
who would've guessed the words this world would bring?

Don't you hold this promise, somewhere deeper
than the palm of your right hand?
Doesn't every premise in your spirit tell you
not to leave this land?
I think I see promises hide behind the
ambivalence of your words
sometimes, but then I never could ignore
the lawful weight of what I've heard.

You don't regret it baby, no you don't,
we could forget it happened but we won't.
You don't regret it honey, not a thing;
who would've guessed the words this world would bring?

My spirit aches with needing you,
I cannot take this silence,
tell me home.