ALMOST Over - Album Lyrics

The Line of Life (V. Polichar, 2014) 

The line of life that holds me dreaming here; 
The line of fate that keeps you out of my arms — 
I see your eyes, and I imagine your touch. 
I see my hands, and I imagine so much… 
There is no world in which we exist. 
There is no world in which “we” exists. 
I am alive — I am still breathing here. 
I want you now, despite impossible odds. 
I want your kiss, and I imagine your eyes. 
I see your lips, and I imagine your lies. 
There is no world in which we exist. 
There is no world in which “we” exists. 
Keep with me. 
You don’t know what I’ve become. 
You don’t know what I have done. 
Keep with me. 
I’ll unroll my history, 
see if you would still want me. 
(I want you to want me. I want you to want me…) 

The line of life — the arc of history 
I am a flame that spirals out of control 
Until the end I’ll be fuelled by desire. 
I’ll be your friend, but I’ll imagine the fire. 

There is no world in which we exist. 
There is no world in which “we” exists. 

Keep with me. (I want you to want me.) 

 

Indelible (V. Polichar, 2015) 

I’d like to say it’s a little too soon to know 
that you’ve got my heart for good. 
I can see down the road ahead, and it ends in dust– 
just like every dreamer would. 

Are you a tattoo 
written on my skin, 
or are you only chains 
around the heart within? 
Are you a tattoo? 

If I were real, would you ever look twice behind? 
Would you see me standing on the stair? 
If we could dance on the precipice face to face, 
would you vanish in mid-air? 

And are you a tattoo 
carved into my bone? 
or are you only change– 
the turning of a stone… 
Are you a tattoo? 

I see his breath in the winter and long to say, 
“I am the refuge that you seek.” 
I feel her warmth like a canopy over snow, 
and sometimes I grow weak. 

You are burned into my words 
You are burned into my hand 
You are burned into my sea 
You are burned into my sand 
You are burned into my book 
You are burned into my choice 
You are burned into my art 
“And if i sing you are my voice,” 

But are you a tattoo 
I’ll carry ’til the end, 
or are you just the blood I’ve lost, 
the breath I have to spend? 
Are you a tattoo? 

 

Stone (V. Polichar, 2015) 
It is winter in these trees. 
It is summer in this breeze. 
It is all that I can bear: 
every season you’re not there 

But the spring it comes so sweet, 
spreads a carpet ‘neath my feet 
I am not afraid to say 
it’s growing dearer every day 

But you are not a boat for me 
at the shoreline of my sea. 
You will not be my rock, nor anything I own. 
But I’m a lake without a ripple yet, 
and you will always be my stone 

We chose our paths, and I chose well; 
thrust from the entryway to hell, 
I found the light along the seam: 
between the nightmares to the dream. 

And you are not the one I choose; 
there is nothing here to lose. 
You will not be my rock, not be my blood and bone — 
but I’m an echo seeking canyon walls, 
and you will always be my stone 

I will forget the way I feel today 

And yours is not the name I’ll call 
at the ending of it all. 
You will not be my rock, nor will I call you home. 
But when I’m a window on the darkest street, 
you will always be my stone. 

 

52:23 (V. Polichar, 1999)

I had no voice anymore 
I think I’ve screamed ’til I’m sore 
I felt discarded and disregarded 
I lay, a shell and a husk — 
I could not take “me” from “us” 
so I decided I felt divided 

(Stay with me now, it’s quiet) 

and I — I just want you — I want you to talk to me 
for about fifty-two hours and twenty-three minutes 

Have I a place in your play? 
I’m never sure what to say 
or what my role is, or what control is 
I won’t reveal my inside 
my heart is thin but it’s wide 
and no one sold it; I might have told it… 

(Stay with me now, it’s quiet) 

and I — I just want you — I want you to play music to me 
for about fifty-two hours and twenty-three minutes 

(And I was talking to you, but I couldn’t hear you.) 

I felt one moment of doubt 
as if my inside were out — 
my sleeve was wearing, my heart was tearing — 
Then I stepped into the street 
and I felt firm on my feet 
and past all caring, and past despairing 

(Stay with me now, it’s quiet) 

and I — I just want you — I want you to wait for me 
for about fifty-two years and twenty-three minutes 

 

The Mirror (V. Polichar, 2004) 

And in the mirror, see your face again: 
the ghost that haunts the spaces in between. 
I meet your eyes as if I don’t intend to turn my head 
and walk off and leave the scene, and you believe. 

This is a photograph, a replica. 
There is no answer when I call you now. 
I’m left to ponder the apocrypha, the toxic pen 
that could write these cryptic words and just move on. 

And I look again to the mirror 
and think how beautiful I am 
and how finely shaped my skull, 
and how little remains in the garden 
if I go walking out on the flowers 
with my arch so full… 

I presuppose that I will meet my end — 
that Death will claim me with her long wild arms — 
that I’ll keep dancing until I can’t spend my breath on flowers 
or my eyes upon your charms, and I will fight… 

And I look again to the mirror 
and think how beautiful I am 
and how finely shaped my skull, 
and how little remains in the garden 
if I go walking out on the flowers 
with my heart so full…

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