Can't talk about, can't write about, a single thing but loving you
Don't mean to schmooze, my shameless muse, always down for aimless cruise
stare through window glass at tunnel lights that zoom straight past our heads
I walk on air, dodge solar flares, ignites my mind when I'm in bed
I can't stop, cotton to moth
brushstrokes swirl upon the backdrop
slumping over center console
dream about centaurs and scary monsters
shake me awake and tell me its okay
I know it is but it feels better that way
And I feel a nostalgia a sense of old security
the same I got when I was young and fell asleep to the TV
underneath the afghan with unwravled threads and fraying ends
hold onto me while I nitpick the same old **** inside my head
I can't stop, cotton to moth
brushstrokes swirl upon the backdrop
slumping over center console
dream about centaurs and scary monsters
shake me awake and tell me its okay
I know it is but it feels better that way
Tell me baby is it true?
Should I ride or die for you?
can I be your passenger?
or do you find me lackluster?
I can't let it be the thought of you and me
scared that our future is tragic history
and every time I find myself ready to shift gears
something holds me back, some aching type of fear
I can't stop, cotton to moth
brushstrokes swirl upon the backdrop
slumping over center console
dream about centaurs and scary monsters
shake me awake and tell me its okay
I know it is but it feels better that way
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 6:03 PM UTC
Can't talk about, can't write about, a single thing but loving you
Don't mean to schmooze, my shameless muse, always down for aimless cruise
stare through window glass at tunnel lights that zoom straight past our heads
I walk on air, dodge solar flares, ignites my mind when I'm in bed
I can't stop, cotton to moth
brushstrokes swirl upon the backdrop
slumping over center console
dream about centaurs and scary monsters
shake me awake and tell me its okay
I know it is but it feels better that way
And I feel a nostalgia a sense of old security
the same I got when I was young and fell asleep to the TV
underneath the afghan with unwravled threads and fraying ends
hold onto me while I nitpick the same old **** inside my head
I can't stop, cotton to moth
brushstrokes swirl upon the backdrop
slumping over center console
dream about centaurs and scary monsters
shake me awake and tell me its okay
I know it is but it feels better that way
Tell me baby is it true?
Should I ride or die for you?
can I be your passenger?
or do you find me lackluster?
I can't let it be the thought of you and me
scared that our future is tragic history
and every time I find myself ready to shift gears
something holds me back, some aching type of fear
I can't stop, cotton to moth
brushstrokes swirl upon the backdrop
slumping over center console
dream about centaurs and scary monsters
shake me awake and tell me its okay
I know it is but it feels better that way
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