Her rose-tinted view of the world,
Through her ambiguous wide eyes,
A different view,
Under this willow tree,
An indecisive decision,
That we tied a ribbon around,
And she promised to play the guitar.

Hitchhiking along these train tracks,
With a hobo-sack and a thumb,
Wandering through these yellow-rose roads,
Counting all these raindrops,
on their velvet red petals,
give it away to a passerby,
kiss their sweet scent goodbye,
by any other name, just a sweet,
as that old man with a sugar cane,
wrinkled grubby face,
bittersweet, sour taste,
our clever little question marks,
unprovoked laughter, laced.

You’re meant to wear glasses,
But you never do,
Still rose-tinted,
Those green eyes,
A little optimist,
Gone fishin’ for a wish,
Catching shooting stars in your net,
We are, we are,
We are the lucky ones,
In our strange lucky way,
Going through a lucky phase,
Keeping the bad luck at bay.

We’re on the swings,
Our feet swinging,
Converse laces untied and muddy,
We’ll jump in puddles,
Faces lit up by the blue lightening,
That stop-starts our beating hearts,
Let’s bake a cake,
With iced roses,
Little iced petals,
Put them in a jar,
half full of crystal water,
Let’s murder a classic,
And sing along bad.

Rose-tinted view,
Glittering and shining,
Twisted ivy wires,
Our constant, perfect timing,
Exact,
When the rose hits four,
See you when the lark’s singing,
on the other side,
see you when you’re winning,
hop-scotch skipping
along that rose line.