I hate to leave the warmth of your arms
but the silence is unsettling and I gently escape.
As I tiptoe across the cold wood floor,
your eyes gaze my way, asking for more.
I flip the record over and gently place the needle down,
waiting for the windmill of Townshend to drown
the silence and the pain from my busy brain
and I settle back into your arms and your warmth
and wait for this high, that only you can bring.
