The way you hold my hand is like a warm blanket reminding me of home
There is a seriousness to the way you play with my fingers
And the way you look at me, that I have to look away
I know that you're afraid that I might be a trick of the light
Even lightning that might strike twice
Something that you cannot grasp
Although I tell you my blood looks for solid stuff
I myself am made of wisp and air
Here is me being in your lungs as least