Maybe Now

If I were a writer, you'd be the sculptor

Each line in my head is clay in your hands

Long eyelashes they fly, the ends of your lips curl

And we push and we pull 'til all I can breathe is you

So why don't we go under

Where we're safe under the covers

If babble or brook mistakenly took

My heart from a well, I'd still long to hear that laugh again

And while cookies are sweet, I'd still rather have you

And we breathe, make believe, and daydream it's coming true