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My blanket sends you a postcard saying, |
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"It's not the same without you here." |
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My pillow would like you to know |
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that a piece of it dies whenever you go |
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And you are the man for me |
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But I'm not sure if I'm your kind of girl |
|
As I was walking down the street today |
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I said "Hello" to everything I saw |
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When they asked how I was I would say |
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"I'm good, I'm great, I'm really really great." |
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It's late November and the weather could not have been |
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any better than the weather was today. |
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Yesterday was Thanksgiving and tomorrow will be Christmas |
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If I had a pen and paper I'd write to you everyday |
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After December it's hard to remember how good life's always feeling |
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but then it will be spring |
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If I had a doppelganger I would send her out to see you |
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but now you're in L.A., that city rubs me the wrong way |
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My curtains miss the sound of your voice |
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My sheets are expecting a souvenir |
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The rug on my floor is slightly resentful |
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but all is forgiven whenever you're near |
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And you are the man for me |
|
But I'm not sure if I'm your kind of girl |
|
As I was walking down the street today |
|
I said "Hello" to everything I saw |
|
When they asked how I was I would say |
|
"I'm good, I'm great, I'm really really great." |
|
At the end of April I'll be 24 |
|
And soon after that I will be 25 |
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If it still feels like forever since the last time that I saw you |
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When I turn 26 I will do something about it |
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I would write you an epic album |
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if I could do more than just sing and play bass |
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And if I could do more than just walk and run |
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I would drive to you and sing it to your face |
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When I ask your opinion you would say |
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"It's good, it's great, it's really really great." |
|
Then I'd say |
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And you are the man for me |
|
But I'm not sure if I'm your kind of girl |
|
My blanket sends you a postcard saying, |
|
"It's not the same without you here." |
|
My pillow would like you to know |
|
that a piece of it dies whenever you go |
