Okkervil River

Hot breath, rought skin,
warm laughs and smiling,
the lovliest words whispered and meant,
you like all these things.
But, though you like all these things,
you love a stone.
You love a stone,
because it's smooth and it's cold.
And you'd love most to be told that it's all your own.
You love white veins,
you love hard grey,
the heaviest weight,
the clumsiest shape,
the earthiest smell,
the hollowest tone.
You love a stone.
And I'm found too fast,
called too fond of flames,
then I'm phoning my friends,
then I'm shouldering the blame,
while you're picking pebbles out of the drain, miles ago.
And you're out singing songs,
and I'm down shouting names
at the flickerless screen,
going fucking insane.
Am I losing my cool,
overstating my case?
Well, baby what can I say?
You know I never claimed
that I was a stone.
And you love a stone.
You love white veins,
you love hard grey,
the heaviest weight,
the clumsiest shape,
the earthiest smell,
the hollowest tone.
You love a stone.
You love a stone,
because it's dark and it's old.
And if it could start being alive
you'd stop living alone.
And I think I believe, that
if stones could dream,
they'd dream of being laid
side-by-side, piece-by-piece,
and turned into a castle
for some towering queen
they're unable to know.
And when that queen's daughter
came of age,
well, I think she'd be lovely
and stubborn and brave,
and suitors would journey
from kingdoms away
just to make themselves known.
And I think that I know the bitter dismay
of a lover who brought fresh bouquets every day
when she turned him away to remember some knave
who once gave just one rose, one day, years ago.