Am I real
And what do I feel
Hate is half a heart
Only I am in my arms

You were sold
For something to hold
Nothing's as rude as the cold
Stupidly beautifoolish true you
Maybe madness is a heart
Maybe heaven is a habit

If I could fly
I'd live in the sky
And obviously you do too
The very start of everything hard
Could be the slip of a fingertip