Exhale. The world spins and I'm doing dishes.
Daydreams of songs about unfulfilled wishes.
Dust in the corners and smears on the table.
I'm quiet and restless, depleted but able.
Cobwebs that drape across most of the ceiling.
Out of control with an incomplete feeling.
And I can't help but wonder, is this my best?
Let it rest, my love. Let it rest.
Because silently sleeping upstairs is a baby
and when she awakes I will hold her and maybe
the world will stop spinning and I'll get the notion
that life can't be felt when I'm numb from commotion.
She will grow quickly and time will not slow.
I'll raise her to leave me and hate when she goes.
And in hindsight the moments that I'll love the best
were the ones where we stopped and we just let it rest.