Sun-dried grass biting our ankles as we walk side-by-side down the hill.
All I want to do is reach out and hold your hand, rough with too much labor.
But let's just keep to ourselves like always.

Conversation fades in and out like your favorite radio station when driving through the mountains.
Let's try a different channel and let our eyes tell what our lips can't.
You're chocolate eyes and my baby blues, would shake any artist.

Let's write the rest of the story together,
Break the mold of college and dead-end jobs.
Nine-to-Fives were never your style anyway.