That's her handwriting
That's the way she writes
These are words in search of a heart. One heart in particular, if I'm being honest; any heart that will listen, if I'm being realistic. I can only whisper them to the rain as I walk home, and I am in a place that I have long known. Time does not always move forward, and as I drift through the raindrops, I half imagine that I might end up, these many miles, plane rides, and countries in tow, in that warm place where my dreams always end. But time does not always move. These words I offer in hope that they might find their way to your door. If not in flesh, then in spirit; if not in life, then in lyric.
That's the way she writes
These are words in search of a heart. One heart in particular, if I'm being honest; any heart that will listen, if I'm being realistic. I can only whisper them to the rain as I walk home, and I am in a place that I have long known. Time does not always move forward, and as I drift through the raindrops, I half imagine that I might end up, these many miles, plane rides, and countries in tow, in that warm place where my dreams always end. But time does not always move. These words I offer in hope that they might find their way to your door. If not in flesh, then in spirit; if not in life, then in lyric.
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