My hands are cold.
The blood doesn’t settle there;
my fingertips are empty.
My fingertips are empty.
If a butterfly kissed them,
I wouldn’t feel it.
I wouldn’t feel it if
you told me goodbye -
my heart is a scar.
My heart is a scar.
It struggles to beat,
trapped in longing like that.
Trapped in longing like that,
it’s hard to watch you.
You warm my heart.
You warm my heart.
I want you to warm my body as well.
My hands are cold.
Feb 5, 2012
Feb 5, 2012 at 10:07 PM UTC
My hands are cold.
The blood doesn’t settle there;
my fingertips are empty.
My fingertips are empty.
If a butterfly kissed them,
I wouldn’t feel it.
I wouldn’t feel it if
you told me goodbye -
my heart is a scar.
My heart is a scar.
It struggles to beat,
trapped in longing like that.
Trapped in longing like that,
it’s hard to watch you.
You warm my heart.
You warm my heart.
I want you to warm my body as well.
My hands are cold.
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