I miss you, like everyday.

Words don't ever seem to come up right,

But I still mean them, why is that? It hurts my pride to tell you how I feel...
But I still need to, why is that?

It's so simple, I feel it, but it's everything.

I'm ready for their stones.

We are not just art for Michaelangelo to carve,

He can't rewrite the agro of my furied heart,
I'll wait On mountain tops in Paris cold...

Je ne veux pas mourrir toute seule.

I'll dance, dance, dance; With my hands, hands, hands;
Above my head, head, head...

Like Jesus said...