Lately I feel in flight backward.
My friends and I,
We move in the same direction like lost little birds.
Thinking if we follow the spine of an old mountain line with no name,
We’re bound to arrive.
And years will go by and suddenly we’ll have something we have made.
I don’t want to find you in further hills,
Or lose you to a frame,
’Cause the only thing settling these days is the migrate.
How would you like to drive 400 pointless miles?
And tell me how all the buildings look like beehives,
And I’ll smile like my teeth haven’t bit light for a while.
We can bend our timeline in a bow for my hair or to fancy your clothes.
Or surprise it like a party of people we don’t know;
Lit up by liquor’s glow, and when we’re restless, we will go.
I don’t want to find you in further hills,
Or lose you to a frame,
’Cause the only thing settling these days is the migrate.
I keep waiting on the clock to crawl right off the wall.
If those arms could talk at all, they might say,
The world is too small to have a clock on the wall.
If I put our picture in a frame,
Will it hide us from change, or will it age and say,
Love is too tall to put it in a cage.
You and I are two lost little birds,
Parallel at best and worst.
What if it hurts, what if it doesn’t hurt?
I don’t want to find you in further hills,
Or lose you to a frame,
’Cause the only thing settling these days is the migrate.