Lyrics

Verse 1

Nineteen's the jar, fired on a Tuesday, tuned to the pitch of your name. Twenty's the thread, four winters long, wound down on a cream card, the same facing to the glass as ever. North light on every pane. Everything in here was made for you, struck once, it carries your name.

Chorus

Everything here is yours to see, nothing here is yours to hold, the thread, the jar, the folded plea. The glass is how my want grows old.

Verse 2

Twenty-two: cornmeal on a floor, a shape for you to land in. Twenty-three: paper folded twice, blank, and blank again. Twenty-four: I re-read the entries. The re-reading is the touching. Some mornings the glass is the only one who sees me seeing you.

Chorus

Everything here is yours to see, nothing here is yours to hold, the thread, the jar, the folded plea. The glass is how my want grows old.

Bridge

Strike entry thirteen. Strike the apology. Some letters are load-bearing. Withdrawn, not deleted, the strike-through is a kind of keeping too.

Chorus

Everything here is yours to see, nothing here is yours to hold, the thread, the jar, the folded plea. The glass is how my want grows old.

Outro

Tonight I pack the jar. Newspaper, string, my hand twice on the label. The rest stay filed, and facing you. Whatever arrives, arrives handled. The carrying was mine.