And nothing I could offer would do anything for myself
Except do something owed, something fresh, something bold
And the rest is left to simmer and become something real
I'm afraid, of the cold, what it's like not to feel
And nothing I could offer would do anything for myself
Except do something owed, something fresh, something bold
And the rest is left to simmer and become something real
I'm afraid, of the cold, what it's like not to feel