Even the stars don't know what to say to you...

You and I, we are the sweetest kind of sad.

Even the stars don't know what to say to you.

 

Our paths were never bound to intertwine.

We were the numbers of pie which can never make ends meet.

 

We have no rhythm and no rhyme, and there are no birds that will sing to us.

We aren't music but art, and art isn't supposed to be pretty/ it's a mess you can't stop looking it.

 

If there is no music, how can the grass turn us into flowers?

And if we are not flowers, how can we suffice?

 

Buds grow into flowers, surely,

But we're not buds/ we are weeds.

 

We are the waves that never meet the shore,

Just flapping in the middle of the sea,

flapping and flapping endlessly...

the salty ocean stinging children's eyes.

Clock hands that never tell time.

 

You and I, we're fine on our own.

But together, we are the sweetest kind of sad.

 

And even the stars don't know what to say to you...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Even I don't know what to say to you.