Your life, back in a banner year.
A blast of light. A brace of cheers.
A house of wild accolades
evaporating on an August night
when I'm looking out into the sound.
I'm breathing deep. I'm turning around.
"Do you want to swim out to that island?"
Touch my wrist. It's shaking just like someday
baby when we're older.
Cash will be inside our kisses, someday,
maybe, baby when I'm gold.
Your hair is thin and light
as a white forest fire in summertime.
Your throat, where it's exposed, looks like a crime,
all sneak-up slow and whisper quiet.
Your pretty face looks like an island
rising from a sea that's slowly drying.
When I'm saying,
"Do you want to sail out in the silence?"
"Will you come over here and do me violence?"
Press your ear up to my wrist --
the blood is racing some way, going wherever,
and I'm asking,
"Will you stand up tall and be my shelter?"
How will we go -- what do you think?
Into the dust? Into the drink?
You slipped your fears into my head,
some midnight freeway ride along with Jennifer.
Hotels, jails, hospital details.
The highway hugs the water.
I had to cross a field of screaming fire
to see the moonlight on the river.
"Do you want to come and make me shiver?"
Squeeze my arm and feel it pull away like someday,
baby, when we differ.
I'll tell you what I didn't say.
I'll tell you about the way I really miss him.
You tell them what you want to tell them.
Tell them about the way you really loved her.
And we'll shake it, shake it,
shake it off, and take another,
because no one
is going to stop me
not even my brother.