Hills

I can breath here, it all comes out of me
Inside, a tension building
This is, this is my release

Heather's arm around the town, Brian rolls his window down
Saying we are young and we're not going anywhere
Feeling rushes up the hills, a fire for your body's chill
A pauper, poet and a crowd of punter's laughing

Blue nights becoming long
We're singing our own song
Where will we go, party of our own?
Walking in threes along the grove
It's not like we've been getting old
And when we leave we'll sing that we will miss here

The moonlight soft on the skin
As I take your body in

A long drive home
Your shoulder on mine, nothing to hold

The tent that you sneak out of
Slip into the night to find the words for sorry
Your temper told me it was necessary

Free from past
Dipped in glaze
Still is the pace, passing the days
In a river contained in a porcelain vase
For three months, the young people went into the hills
Still is the pace, passing the days
In a river contained in a porcelain vase

A long drive home
Your shoulder on mine, nothing to hold