hypoxian

Morning gray ignites a twisted mess of foreign shapes and sounds,
I wish the ceiling was the ground.
I'll send you flowers made of silent tiny pieces of the sun
to help me make up for this one.
While you send me tidal waves of love when you're alone
and I can't remember what you do
to find a way to turn the signal back to heaven sounding blue
and bring me faithful back to you.

And she don't hold me right,
she's never going to get me there.
And she don't hold me right,
she's never going to get me there, not tonight.

"I Hate It Too"