Through the holes in my glove.

Let's move to Montreal tomorrow.
Forget about the hushed innuendos.
You can be my pimp and we'll make some quick money.
I can buy the heroin, you can buy the honey.

Dance to the fall of fantastical snowflakes.
Sing with the melody of our erratic mistakes.
We can scream at fancy fat cats,
Or trample the daisies and pretend we're aristocrats.

We'll rescue the dimes found under the mattress.
Fuck it, who needs a permanent address,
Or functioning lungs or lipstick or math?
Bright gray skies and bubble-less baths.

I'll tie your tie and you do up my shoes.
You'll always be late 'cause I like to press snooze.
Unemployed with so much to see.
Staring at the hopeless clouds and sitting 'neath the walnut tree.

These are my promises, to you and to me.
I'll collect baskets of stale potpourri
And you'll just sit there and deliver me love
and kiss my skin through the holes in my glove.

Leave if you're sick, but I'd prefer that you'd stay.
Always thought health was minor, but I'll brew you earl gray.
I'm not stupid, I just like excuses.
You left your mark; you live on through my bruises.