Woorden: David Mead. Comfort.

We're talking trash again like long sedated lovers
Baby what's become of us
A latent memory of Southern spring and summer
Maybe Winter in New York


It's started raining now on all my best intentions
I'm putting on my heavy coat
I'll take an airplane and leave the worst unmentioned
Blame it on a lack of time


When I was given to easy answers
I swept you off your feet
But now the dancing days are gone
You sleep alone, leave the radio on


I'm high above it now, the clouds a pillow for me
I consider even more
You have the softest eyes, the ways to wash and comfort
All the kids on Jersey Shore