You're not the sun; it's just a light,
Waking early Sunday morning.
You're not my church; it's just the bells,
Ringing sweetly through the house.
And in this sense of mine,
You're not an answer and I'm not this prayer.
You're still in reach; I please myself,
Wasting early Sunday morning,
You're not my lead; you're just my help,
Talk the edge off sheer denial.
And in this state of mine, you're what I want,
Nothing close to what I need; I breathe you in.
Suit yourself; lose myself,
Breaking early Sunday morning,
You're not the sun; you're not my church;
I still hold some self-control.
But in this sense of mine, I'm still too high,
Look no hands; I breathe you in.