Every word I write is already known because these are the lines of your body.
Images of what you could be, outlines of what you have been,
Traced in chalk around pieces of paper all scattered on my floor.
You are every tree in this forest and at night when I’m here alone,
When it’s all breathing and no sleep, I feel saplings of you around me.
Every word I write is already known because these are the lines of your body,
And now my songs of you are heard at last.