Plane

I fell for you in your attic

Over the hum and grind of afternoon traffic

We should be pleased to have shared the breeze or a bus

Now you ask what was the fuss

It was the tone of your letter

And the fit of herringbone sweaterYou know it's true I would sell this shelf full of records

For the right to your affection

All these delays and transferred planes

Oh, I would number days and time's own changes

Another mountain range and I'm headed south again

Back to the Blue Ridge and the red, red clayAnd I'd rather be resting in your arms

Than this window seat where everything's clear and warm

In the stratosphere and these heated chairs

O'er the thin, thin, air I just wanna be down there