When City Lights Take the Shape of Stars
The interstate is jammed up to the Oregon state line
And this car is so full of gum wrappers that I can barely make out the floor
Which I strain to see as she reaches across my lap to turn up the heat
For the fortieth time even though the hot air outside is whipping
Through the pines and the cracks in our windows.
We are so far from home so she scowls and for some reason
I am thinking of that familiar hillside overlooking San Francisco
On a cool evening when city lights take the shape of stars in the muddy sky
Two hundred fifty four miles away according to the large, green sign.
And you are standing there like some dollhouse dream
A four-year-old lays out with broken Barbies on her bedroom carpet
Her fingers trembling as she does up the buttons on your miniature jeans
And I am longing to reach out and run my fingers
Along the smooth curve of your face, the stripes in your tiny blue shirt.
But suddenly, you have wrapped your arms around me
As we watch the soft sparks of fireworks fall into the bay
And count to five before we hear the sounds of their explosions
Crawl over the hill and into our wind-swept ears.
And for the moment you are so warm that I could stay here
Until the fireworks die away and we are left with this cold, glittering silence
I would stay until the crowds had fallen away
And you had pressed your lips against mine,
Wound your fingers into my knotted hair
Stay here even after you had driven off in your little red car
And a new you had taken shape.
Stay until world had forgotten the sound of distant sprays of fireworks
The soft silence of windy hillsides in the summer.
I will stay here until I am left with nothing but this memory of you
Which finds footholds in my mind and climbs and climbs
Until I can think of nothing but you as our stuffy car hurtles through the mountains
Closer and closer this place I can’t help but think of as home.
And this car is so full of gum wrappers that I can barely make out the floor
Which I strain to see as she reaches across my lap to turn up the heat
For the fortieth time even though the hot air outside is whipping
Through the pines and the cracks in our windows.
We are so far from home so she scowls and for some reason
I am thinking of that familiar hillside overlooking San Francisco
On a cool evening when city lights take the shape of stars in the muddy sky
Two hundred fifty four miles away according to the large, green sign.
And you are standing there like some dollhouse dream
A four-year-old lays out with broken Barbies on her bedroom carpet
Her fingers trembling as she does up the buttons on your miniature jeans
And I am longing to reach out and run my fingers
Along the smooth curve of your face, the stripes in your tiny blue shirt.
But suddenly, you have wrapped your arms around me
As we watch the soft sparks of fireworks fall into the bay
And count to five before we hear the sounds of their explosions
Crawl over the hill and into our wind-swept ears.
And for the moment you are so warm that I could stay here
Until the fireworks die away and we are left with this cold, glittering silence
I would stay until the crowds had fallen away
And you had pressed your lips against mine,
Wound your fingers into my knotted hair
Stay here even after you had driven off in your little red car
And a new you had taken shape.
Stay until world had forgotten the sound of distant sprays of fireworks
The soft silence of windy hillsides in the summer.
I will stay here until I am left with nothing but this memory of you
Which finds footholds in my mind and climbs and climbs
Until I can think of nothing but you as our stuffy car hurtles through the mountains
Closer and closer this place I can’t help but think of as home.