Fire, you’re a fire in my belly.
And you are the reason why
I can see you everywhere; I can feel it in my thighs.
Can I run my fingers through your hair?
(I have come here from over there.)
Can I run my fingers through your hair?
You are the stream where I have been
Standing on the banks practicing patience.
You are the stream where I have been
Standing on the banks practicing patience.
Can I run my fingers down your back?
(And, baby, is there anything that you lack?)
Can I run my fingers down your back?
What is the wind without a leaf?
What is loss without a little grief?
What is fire without air?
And what are fingers without hair?
Can I….
© Karen Harris, 2000