'tis the season for your folly.

As it grows a little calmer,
A foreshadow of the moments away,
I begin to yearn,
Only now I feign it's not for you;
Question - is it habit or heart that tells me so?

As it grows a little calmer,
I tremble in apprehensive glitter,
I see it sparkle,
Only now I feign it's general,
Remember - this is never an easy time for lonely.

As it grows a little calmer,
You flicker a gaze, a low energy smile,
I feel it melting,
Only now I feign you're evil,
However, I don't think I believe myself.

An ocean of bodies holding hands,
Touching shoulders, waistlines, cheekbones,
I want an electric shock.

But in other news, I'm moving to a new apartment.
And it will be nice.
And I wonder, will you see this place?

The art of the human heart.

Flow down all my mountains,

Darlin' fill my valleys.

The mixture is eggy,

and the yoke leads me to you.

Maybe it's the scouse,

The welsh,

The little things.

The everythings and the connotations,

Inevitably you, unbearably fresh.

And then there's our tomorrow,

And 'what does he do now?' -

I didn't know. I really don't.

'What about what he promised?' -

I couldn't say. 

"There's a promise made in every bed. 

Spoken or silent, a promise is surely made"

You're probably here, 

(Either now, tomorrow, or tomorrow's tomorrow)

Because of tomorrow.

You're a liar if you say you're not.

In spirit, in mind, in fingertips.

I'm ok, if you ever wanted to know.

Not great. But ok.

To be alone with you.

Tethered heartstrings, worse or worse or better.

The welsh,

The scouse maybe,

The little things. Little me.

"Whatever promise she senses: Break it. Break it."

I've never been more sure of the dreams in my heart,

Of who I'm supposed to be.

And the world worries that we're liars,

But, you see, I've learned this of late:

We're the truth.

That's why we're a little unnerving, 

Because we move you -

Lies don't move you like the truth moves you.

I've found the second truth.

He is the first and last.

My art is the second. 

The truth of the human heart.

I'm dabbling in the art of the human heart.

It's magical.

I can't wait to move you.

Borrowed words.

I first met you many years ago,
Since I've met you many years have passed,
Most of which I've been trying to figure you out, of my life?
Where you go you leave a trail of chaos,
Your footsteps always lead to the same thing,
It may be hard for everyone to see what's going on.
But you can count on me.

Like a freight train without any freight...
I promise you, the end's gonna come, soon.
And like a hurricane, the end's gonna come.
As you know it should.

And right in the depths of despair,
Honestly I still truly care.
How I long to see you set free.
Now I know, the liberator can't be me.