Folded up in the wrong type of melody,
I'd rather say I love you.
But it's dark, descending, and sorry.

Try to take back but it slips easy like needles over grooves.
But I'm thinking only good toward you,
with the force of a river move.

When you're in far-off scenery,
I dream you outside the lines,
'til you blur into every part of me.

And when you return it's a consuming truth,
it's hardest when you feel it most to say I love you.

For now in the kitchen,
turns out I could write on you all day through.
How you're constant, and allude to me,
and if I lost you, I'd be loose, like crying strings,
like how a river moves.

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