When she rambles on
She leaves a trail of hand picked flowers
The wind blows them out from behind her ear
When it whispers sweet nothings and tosses her hair
They are dead by the time he finds them.
She waters the earth with her pillowcase tears,
Yes, spring is at the heels of her sorrow.
The same way she loves the darkest hour of the night
That promises the sun and another tomorrow.
To her, the past is perfect,
The future is open,
And right now has no ceiling.
There is no land that is home
For a wandering soul
For home is just a feeling.