| You turn your head, I rest on you
|
| Beneath my skin, inside my bones
|
| You guide my hand, what can I do but touch you
|
| You lift your head, I press on you
|
| The more you move the less I know
|
| You guide my hand, what can I do but touch you
|
| Heavy arms, breathing, passion, fever
|
| The burden of joy
|
| Flavor, rhythm, turning, sweet
|
| A gift from the woman who shone in the dark
|
| Temper, promises, jealousy, tears
|
| The burden of joy
|
| Pressure, aching, repeating, sweet
|
| A gift from the woman who shone in the dark
|
| The body extends like a thought
|
| Like something you almost remember
|
| Your memory is made of light
|
| With your face shining like fate
|
| Becoming something I can keep
|
| Heavy arms, breathing, passion, fever
|
| The burden of joy
|
| Flavor, rhythm, turning, sweet
|
| A gift from the woman who shone in the dark
|
| You turn your head, I rest on you
|
| Beneath my skin, inside my bones
|
| You guide my hand, what can I do but touch you
|
| I lie here making a weapon out of desire
|
| You hear me from far away but
|
| My voice does not touch you
|
| I throw out a net, waiting to gather you in
|
| So I can keep you like a photograph
|
| You turn your head, I rest on you
|
| Beneath my skin, inside my bones
|
| You guide my hand, what can I do but touch you
|
| You raise your head, I press on you
|
| The more you move the less I know
|
| You guide my hand, what can I do but touch you
|
| With warm hands, I die, you die
|
| Where is he, where am I
|
| Without laughter I am dead
|
| Dead and dead
|
| In the pitch dark night
|
| Arrow shot at him
|
| Heavy arms, breathing, passion, fever
|
| The burden of joy
|
| Flavor, rhythm, turning, sweet
|
| A gift from the woman who shone in the dark
|
| Temper, promises, jealousy, tears
|
| The burden of joy
|
| Pressure, aching, repeating, sweet
|
| A gift from the woman who shone in the dark
|
| You turn your head, I rest on you
|
| Beneath my skin, inside my bones
|
| You guide my hand, what can I do but touch you
|
| Your memory is made up of light
|
| It takes up residence and shines out
|
| Like a photograph of fire
|
| Like the light of my own body in the dark
|
| Like something you almost remember
|
| You turn your head, I rest on you
|
| Beneath my skin, inside my bones
|
| You guide my hand, what can I do but touch you
|
| You lift your head, I press on you
|
| The more you move the less I know
|
| You guide my hand, what can I do but touch you |