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.

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