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I fell for you in your attic |
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Over the hum and grind of afternoon traffic |
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We should be pleased to have shared the breeze or a bus |
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Now you ask what was the fuss |
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It was the tone of your letter |
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And the fit of herringbone sweater |
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You know it's true, |
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I would sell this shelf full of records |
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For a ride to your affection |
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All these delays and transferred planes |
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Oh I would number the days and time zone changes |
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Another mountain range and I'm headed south again |
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Back to the Blue Ridge and the red, red clay |
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And I'd rather be resting in your arms |
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Than this window seat |
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Where everything's clear and warm |
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In the stratosphere in these heated chairs |
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Oh the thin, thin air |
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I just wanna be down there |
