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So let the world have its consummation. Its petty, small conclusions. We have this infinite equation. This permanent illusion. Of almost. And almost. And almost. And almost. It is enough. It is the only thing. It is the only thing. It is the only thing that is enough.It's in the way your breath stops when my thumb finds the dip where your neck meets your shoulder. A full, complete arrest. It's in the way my teeth set against the want to bite, to taste the salt-skin proof of you. A deliberate, painful debt. We are all pause. All held inhale. A static charge between two rails that never quite connect. (Chorus) This is the discipline of almost. The brutal, tender cost of us choosing the map over the land. Your hand in my hair is a command to stay right here, in the terrible, beautiful fear of what happens next. Which is nothing. Which is everything. Which is this. (Verse 2) It's in the arch you make, a bridge I refuse to cross, each vertebra a city I will only ever siege in thought. It's in the choke of my own name in your mouth, a swallowed stone. A souvenir you keep from a country we won't own. We are all cliff. All leaning, endless fall. Hearing the distant, calling rush and calling it a song. (Talk to me) (Outro) So let the world have its consummation. Its petty, small conclusions. We have this infinite equation. This permanent illusion. Of almost. And almost. And almost. And almost. It is enough. It is the only thing. It is the only thing. It is the only thing that is enough.