the torrid weave of empty space
the sound of mind and thought
the sight of snowflakes on your face
we can run through forests
or we can take it at your pace
or we can take it to your place

the silent score of broken glass
we hold together in the cold
think deeply so that the time might pass
we run through crowded school halls
life is just a stage
or so i'm told

the slippery slopes of our love
i see the raven fly overhead
i know you're the white dove
i keep checking the meter
i'm hoping our love isn't dead

the open smell of falling leaves
the people we lost this year
i'm not one to grieve
i'm not one to live in fear
of what may happen tomorrow
of what spirits i might find
of what travesties i might borrow
with you, these things i do not mind

the sight of snowflakes on your face
raindrops litter this place
they say love is simple
with us,
that won't ever be the case
we'll propel ourselves into space
the weave of fabric bigger than this
the death of a wish

of empty space
snowflakes and your face
our own pace
our own place
to hide
when there's nowhere left to go
and there's nothing left to know

when there's nowhere left to go
and there's nothing left to know