Hills

I can breath here, it all comes out of me Inside, a tension building This is, this is my release Heather's arm around the town, Brian rolls his window down Saying we are young and we're not going anywhere Feeling rushes up the hills, a fire for your body's chill A pauper, poet and a crowd of punter's laughing Blue nights becoming long We're singing our own song Where will we go, party of our own? Walking in threes along the grove It's not like we've been getting old And when we leave we'll sing that we will miss here The moonlight soft on the skin As I take your body in A long drive home Your shoulder on mine, nothing to hold The tent that you sneak out of Slip into the night to find the words for sorry Your temper told me it was necessary Free from past Dipped in glaze Still is the pace, passing the days In a river contained in a porcelain vase For three months, the young people went into the hills Still is the pace, passing the days In a river contained in a porcelain vase A long drive home Your shoulder on mine, nothing to hold