Your EyesWhen I look into your eyes
Where shining suns go to die
Where sparkling tears overflow your limpid pools
Where wise and loquacious men are made to feel like fools
When I look into your eyes I see
I see where forty years from now I want to be
I see the dying sun from my porch rocker,
One, next to the other,
Hand in hand,
We go hand in hand from one day to the next
And together we create a quite subtext
A subtitle track that plays behind our eyes,
A truth of love that anyone can see but only I,
I see the depth, so I,
I hold my breath
And dive deep into your eyes
And I stare into those eyes while I hold out the ring
To ask those four famous words
But your eyes are the thing
That matters more than any sweet words
Your eyes that hold our future,
And leave me swallowing
Air, building breath, building courage
To ask you to build with me a future,
To build forty years,
To build a big red house
With a white picket fence
And a porch,
Where we can watch
Where I'm FromWhen people ask me where I’m from,
I always start by replying “that’s a long story”.
But that’s not true, is it? It never really is.
What we really mean is
“I’ve told this story a hundred times,
don’t make me say it again.”
This isn’t that story. This is the true story.
Well, it’s not much of a story.
I was born in a little blue house
(Painted Robin’s-Egg blue, my mother always said)
With a red door and a white picket fence and a Volvo in the driveway.
I was born on a futon in the living room, with my family crowded around.
I was born on a cold day in February, with the snow coming down.
I’ve moved a few times in my life:
When my grandmother died, we moved to Florida,
To Miami, to take care of her husband.
I lived in a little white house
On the side of a lake,
With an old wooden boardwalk and an old wooden fence and a tired old driveway.
Well, nothing down there was really ve