You hang her in the wardrobe
with the skins and pinafores.
The cool of the rain in your face
from a distant summer.
From a distant summer.
You leave her in the darkness
while you memorise what's yours.
The perfume on her fingers
like the dust and carbon bloom.
Like the dust and carbon bloom.
A moth leaves on a light blub
in a long-abandoned room,
and you are counting moments
for the book of your regrets.
For the book of your regrets.
The man who squandered everything.
The bird dead in the hand.
The miniature betrayals
that haven't happened yet.
That haven't happened yet.
The shadow on a window,
the absence at the door,
you take her out and put her back
and all the time you're sure.
And all the time you're sure.
She's lost for good.
And yet, where the love is possible,
it's her I love in you,
a girlhood in the greenery of evening.
She's perfect in her secrecy.
She only speaks in dreams.
The gold of her turnning aside,
and the blue of her silence.
And sometimes, in the small hours,
when I need a place to hide,
I take her out and let her breath again,
the cool of the snow on her face.
The cool of the snow on her face.
And a faraway winter,
the perfume of her fingers
like the scent of summer grass,
when you were just a girl.
When you were just a girl.
And time was something other
than the season to remember,
and love was something better
than the shortfall of surrender.
Than the shortfall of surrender.
And time was something other
than the panic of surrender.
with the skins and pinafores.
The cool of the rain in your face
from a distant summer.
From a distant summer.
You leave her in the darkness
while you memorise what's yours.
The perfume on her fingers
like the dust and carbon bloom.
Like the dust and carbon bloom.
A moth leaves on a light blub
in a long-abandoned room,
and you are counting moments
for the book of your regrets.
For the book of your regrets.
The man who squandered everything.
The bird dead in the hand.
The miniature betrayals
that haven't happened yet.
That haven't happened yet.
The shadow on a window,
the absence at the door,
you take her out and put her back
and all the time you're sure.
And all the time you're sure.
She's lost for good.
And yet, where the love is possible,
it's her I love in you,
a girlhood in the greenery of evening.
She's perfect in her secrecy.
She only speaks in dreams.
The gold of her turnning aside,
and the blue of her silence.
And sometimes, in the small hours,
when I need a place to hide,
I take her out and let her breath again,
the cool of the snow on her face.
The cool of the snow on her face.
And a faraway winter,
the perfume of her fingers
like the scent of summer grass,
when you were just a girl.
When you were just a girl.
And time was something other
than the season to remember,
and love was something better
than the shortfall of surrender.
Than the shortfall of surrender.
And time was something other
than the panic of surrender.