Texty: Hum. You'd Prefer An Astronaut. I Hate It Too.

Morning gray ignites a twisted mess of foreign shapes and sounds
I wish the ceiling was the ground
I'll send you flowers made of silent tiny pieces of the sun
To help me make up for this one

While you send me tidal waves of love when you're alone
And I can't remember what you do
To find a way to turn the signal back to Heaven sounding blue
And bring me faithful back to you

And she don't hold me right, she's never going to get me there
And she don't hold me right, she's never going to get me there
Not tonight

If we break off gently in slow motion
Spinning outward into space
My hand always floating gently at the wheel
While you sweetly hold my face

And I need you to give it meaning
I need you to share the view
Or it becomes a time for me to love myself
Like every other thing I do

She don't hold me right, she's never going to get me there
And she don't hold me right, she's never going to get me there
Not tonight