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Pictures on my wall, |
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Fifteen different colours, |
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Starting with vermillion- |
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The first flower of the summer, |
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And don't think I'll be finished |
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Till I've begun to understand this, |
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With you stretched out in the sunlight, |
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As your laughter fills my canvas |
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The sun falls in my fingers, |
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On your back against the blinds, |
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It's tracing out your hollows |
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It is filling in your lines, |
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There your curl finds your spiral |
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As you silhouette the window, |
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When my brush forgives itself |
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Spills lines upon your pillow, |
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Finds you standing in the middle |
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Of the lines you've laid down before |
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Try to trace my picture into yours |
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Let me paint you in the corner, |
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As your shoulders trap the light |
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See the sunset feeling golden |
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On the wineskins of the night |
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I have seen your eyes in paintings |
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As Cathedrals cried Hosanna |
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Let me paint your face in frescos |
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Hang your hair like Angelabra |
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See you standing in the middle |
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Of lines you laid down before, |
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Try to paint my picture into yours |
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In the morning let me find you |
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As I call to you by name, |
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Your body warm beside me |
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Not imprisoned in a frame |
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I could never find the colours |
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Or the light that finely paints you |
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With those roses in your hair |
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Smell of wine, immortal perfume |
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As you're standing in the middle |
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Of lines you laid down before |
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Tryin' to paint my picture into yours |
