When I was young
I had two pencils and drew in two colours
I would stick them to the brick wall outside
And there they would stay
Until the wind blew them away

But the longing stays
Bittersweet
And just under
I wonder if it has a name?
If I said it, would it go away?

Is it the firm press of reality?
And why can my guitar still play it?
What will become of it?
I got a feeling it’s very important to me

The longing that stays
Bittersweet
Just under
I wonder if it has a name?
If I said it, would it go away?

Sometimes it’s like a deity
Sometimes it’s like broken light
Sometimes it’s like loneliness
Sometimes it’s feint
And sometimes it’s like truth

The longing that stays
Bittersweet
Just under
I wonder if it has a name?
If I said it, would it go away?