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These hands, they are made of nervous chords, and they write all the words that my heart cannot afford. They reach through the dark to confess upon your skin, but the force of your forgiveness is another sin for oh, what a beautiful mess. Now I have a bruise to match your dress.
This heart keeps the time of a lover's drum, and the echo in my ear from anotherâs tongue. The night fills up with silence. It's as heavy as any song. And my body is blue with the melodies that you used to sing along. Oh, what a beautiful mess. For now I have a bruise to match your dress.
These hands, they are made of nervous chords, and they write all the words that my heart cannot afford. They reach through the dark for the answer of your skin, but the force of your forgiveness is hard to comprehend. Oh, what a beautiful mess. Now I have a bruise to match your dress.