It ain't your wine that make you kinder.
It ain't your smoke that make you bolder.
It ain't your sleep that make you more beautiful.
It is your voice.
It is your choice of words.
It is your baby footsteps late at night
As you pass by like a lullaby of sorts.
It ain't too late to write a letter.
They say it's better late then never.
Unless it never gets no better.
You never did watch the minute hand.
I prefer your voice.
I prefer to know your plans.
I'll awake the brake lights long before we
Reach the tolls that lead onto the turnpike up ahead.
Give in to personal impersons.
Give in to talk that only worsens this.
See why it's wrong to think you're not over me.
I'll miss your voice.
I'm starting right away.
It is the look you flash in my
Direction when it has been time to go for hours.
It is your voice.
It is your choice of words.
It is your baby footsteps late at night
As you pass by like a lullaby of sorts.