breathe me in, take away everything. the trouble with loss is finding the right words. you have them, you know you do. and you know that whatever you say will be right, but there's always the worry of saying the wrong things.
where can you find these words? hidden behind bookshelves, laying abandoned beneath parked cars, stuffed into letterboxes, floating down the river in the rain... don't ask me, because i don't know. i never could find the right words, and i've spent my whole life searching. until then, i guess i'll just stick to writing the wrong ones, and hope they make sense.
the trouble with love is timing. you're always going to be too late, or too early, or too young, or too old. i'm too young, you're too old. i'm too late, and you're too early. but i'll love you anyway. it's what i do. i'm so desperate to fall in love that i grasp at every straw, hoping i'll find something made of gold.
where can you find these words? hidden behind bookshelves, laying abandoned beneath parked cars, stuffed into letterboxes, floating down the river in the rain... don't ask me, because i don't know. i never could find the right words, and i've spent my whole life searching. until then, i guess i'll just stick to writing the wrong ones, and hope they make sense.
the trouble with love is timing. you're always going to be too late, or too early, or too young, or too old. i'm too young, you're too old. i'm too late, and you're too early. but i'll love you anyway. it's what i do. i'm so desperate to fall in love that i grasp at every straw, hoping i'll find something made of gold.
