The mysteries of love are not for us, it´s the little things that are tearing us up, As the telephone emits a brittle sigh only one of us will reach it in time
What are you not telling me?
As I blow away the dandelion clock will the miracle reveal itself? Like an amateur under the sickle moon did I give away control too soon? Just bread for the birds in second hand furs, an occasional touch, an occasional word, No the mysteries of love are not for us, it´s the little things that are tearing us up