I know you live in the worldnI know you do what you cannbut the way you turn tight cornersnseems to shorten my lifespannnit’s not the weather I lovenit’s just the shape of the skynbut you shrink it to a keyholeneverytime you wander bynand I can barely missnthe package in your hands which isnmy heartnnyou pack the powder so tightnyou wrap it up in some foilnnow it’s not so much the reboundnas it is the sharp recoilnI’ve come to fear from thisnundetonated bomb which isnmy heart (which is my heart)nwhich is breaking againnnI don’t want to tell you what to donI just wish you’d do it once without me asking younI don’t want to tell you how to actnI just wish the story that you told me hadn’t lackednthe proper emphasisnon what I’ve got in mind which isnmy heart (which is my heart)nwhich is breaking again