I see you glancing at the brush, But our bristles don't hold paint the way they used to And for all the folly in our atmosphere, I am sorry I know I'm the one who exhaled the most
Remember, your father told you, "We run the most standing still," But my stars have remained perpetually frozen Since my love ceased blushing your alabaster skin
If you cinch the tourniquet too tightly, To summer's dismay, I may not heal by autumn And whether you whisper treasons of the universe or not, My anchor's still aweigh by first light
Broken words taste bitter upon my tongue, And it's becoming clearer and clearer That you were my road to Arcadia But, as I am prone to do, I derailed us both
I see you glancing at the brush, But our bristles don't hold paint the way they used to And for this achromatic atmosphere, I am sorry I know I'm the one in black and white