Feet On The Sand

There's a million different reasons you wouldn't appear.

Took my picture by the fountain for something to share, hoping you might get the message and think of me there.

Your face lit up by the image like a postcard saying, "Wish you were here. "

Your feet on the sand.

Your hand in my hand.

Your feet on the sand.

He went home to the South

Island to get himself straight, but the Otakara River couldn't wash it away.

Brought back gifts for all the children, green stones on strings, and a soft white lamb just for me.

But did it do a thing?

Your feet on the sand.

Your hand in my hand.

Your feet on the sand.

When I was out in

California, I wrote you from the hills, but the words that we were sharing were never quite for real.

There were all the unsent letters at the bottom of the bin, asking, "Why'd you look so strung out and junkie thin? " But I wish you were here.

Your feet on the sand.

Your hand in my hand.

Your feet on the sand.

Not a mid-tide to a mast.

You're a man upon the shore.

Sirens knocking at your door, and they always find you sleeping on the floor in the mess you left before.

And every time they call, it sounds just like my father's name.

Put your hand into my hand.

Put your hand into my hand.

Put your hand into my hand.

Put your hand into my hand.

Don't forget, when you go to sleep tonight, six green eyes like yours lie wide open.