I'm whistling away
on Sacramento Avenue.
Holed up in the attic,
the people here don't know me,
but they don't seem to mind,
a homeless little girl
never did no harm
'til she's let inside.
Every day should be full of space.
Every day should see my lover's face
smiling back at me,
smiling.
She lives far away,
she is not my lover,
but I can just pretend,
life's been good to me,
and I'm happy with my life,
happy with my life.
It was a troublesome drive,
the last thing she said to me,
she was locked inside
some right-wing family.
You say it's a matter of time,
well that may be the case,
but time is just a part
of time and space.
The longer my arms,
the tighter my grip.
The more I hold,
the more I let slip.
And I never wrote you back,
my silence lets you know:
the less I know of you,
the less I let go.