Am I real

And what do I feel

Hate is half a heart

Only I am in my arms



You were sold

For something to hold

Nothing's as rude as the cold

Stupidly beautifoolish true you

Maybe madness is a heart

Maybe heaven is a habit



If I could fly

I'd live in the sky

And obviously you do too

The very start of everything hard

Could be the slip of a fingertip