I imagine if I just keep playing
The strings of this guitar will become
Strains of your hair.
The wetness on my cheeks come from
London rain and long lost battles I try not to remember.
Instead of trying to win I left the battlefield to follow the sound of guitars playing.
I am starting to believe there was no war,
I was no Jeanne d’arc
I should have already learnt my lesson about listening to angels by now.
They did have a tendency to lead people into fire.
I stroke your hair and try to remember the chords of our song,
But in the end I just let my fingers rest on your heartstrings,
Yours in the only stage I will ever play.