My arms can only reach so far around my own body
The illusion of comfort dies with the flame of my candle
I drink tea because it almost feels like someone is touching me
This warmth, this sadness, this porcelain handle

It hardly wraps around my finger, hardly bears the pressure of my hands
It doesn’t know of the blue, dripping caves of emotion in which I stand
Though, I wonder if its chipping fragments are tears of their own intent
Sit on my ***** window sill, sleep on the small table by my bed

Be my golden flower, smiling as spring skips back to my door
Wink rosy flecks back to the sun, even when your painted blossoms are worn
My pink jewel, every good heart turned neon in your burning coal
An impossibly ripe strawberry, bright in the big vineyard of my soul

The secret clenched tightly to my chest, worlds etched between the burns and scars
Even when my shaky conscience inevitably collapses your own skies and stars
The one beautiful thing in my eyes when I seem to have not much left
Despite your manufactured past, nothing could replace what you represent