Ingrid Michaelson

On a highway along the atlantic I'm rifling through these last 17 years.
The radio waxes romantic.
It's lullabies fill our eyes with tears.
We don't say a word.
There's nothing to say that hasn't been heard.
And how you've grown my little bird.
I'm regretting letting you fly.
6 pounds and 7 ounces.
A ball of bones and flesh and tears were you.