Dry Colors (and Playing Pretense)
I know I’m half full. And sometimes when I hold you I leave some scratches. I never meant to but they look like mine, those scratches, and for that I’m sorry.
I know, when we look up at the stars and far to the sea, we don’t see the same thing, but sometimes I say we do,
because I want us to be the same.
I know I play pretense sometimes. I listen when I’m supposed to see and I stare when I’m supposed to speak; never strong but always pretending. You know this better that anyone else, and for that I’m sorry.
I want to show you this whole other world, to take you away – from the ground, to make you see all these blinding glints and listen to this bold, undefined melody and maybe even paint you these burning emotions.
I want to make you be like me; to make us one of a kind, but
how wishful that would be?
Nobody wants to be lost.
I’m taking away your sand, I know, and it’s because I want to paint a picture. You can’t paint with sand though can you?
But all my colors are dry and every time I try, my painting looks like scratches.
Scratches that I sometimes leave when I hold you.
It’s not fair, I know, it’s never fair. And for that I’m sorry.
I know, when we look up at the stars and far to the sea, we don’t see the same thing, but sometimes I say we do,
because I want us to be the same.
I know I play pretense sometimes. I listen when I’m supposed to see and I stare when I’m supposed to speak; never strong but always pretending. You know this better that anyone else, and for that I’m sorry.
I want to show you this whole other world, to take you away – from the ground, to make you see all these blinding glints and listen to this bold, undefined melody and maybe even paint you these burning emotions.
I want to make you be like me; to make us one of a kind, but
how wishful that would be?
Nobody wants to be lost.
I’m taking away your sand, I know, and it’s because I want to paint a picture. You can’t paint with sand though can you?
But all my colors are dry and every time I try, my painting looks like scratches.
Scratches that I sometimes leave when I hold you.
It’s not fair, I know, it’s never fair. And for that I’m sorry.