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.