David Berkeley Follow

It's a windy night.
Nothing warm about it.
Nothing warm about the blowing wind.
Something must have blown the constellations apart--
our conversations blowing backwards from the start.

It's a hard night.
There's nothing nice about it.
Nothing nice about this weary night.
Someone must have worn all of our patience away.
I need a parachute to pull,
I need to pray.

And I say, "Hey, the trouble down in me, the trouble down in you."
I say, "Oh, the trouble that we feel, it's trouble for a fool."

It's a strange night.
Ghosts down on the gravel,
ghosts come to bemoan the blowing wind.
And anyone can say what they've been hoping to say,
that holding you is blowing everything away.

Well, I know something about this, when she falls into sleep,
she's got this belly ring that bounces when she breathes.
Maybe I should know when it's best to leave.
Or maybe it's all I need now--to be here and believe.

And I say, "Hey, the trouble down in me, the trouble down in you."
I say, "Oh, the trouble that we feel, it's trouble for a fool."

It's a heart pour.
It's where is our perspective?
What happens in the moment we're waiting for?
You know in the end we weigh every card that we hold,
and some are butterflies and some are rock n' roll.

And I say, "Hey, the trouble down in me, the trouble down in you."
I say, "Oh, the trouble that we feel, it's trouble for a fool."