(Play the song for a better reading experience!)
The December moon, just like her eyes,
lights up the coast in Malibu.
Driving through
the cold in her hand-me-down Cadillac;
such small hands on the wheel,
fingers against the worn out leather,
she's no one's girl but her own heroine
in an open-ended storyline.
lights up the coast in Malibu.
Driving through
the cold in her hand-me-down Cadillac;
such small hands on the wheel,
fingers against the worn out leather,
she's no one's girl but her own heroine
in an open-ended storyline.
Coiled hair blown off like trails left in the sky,
a mess without a care.
If only airplanes fly without a track like birds
with their wings wide open.
They chase sunsets, she chases dawn.
Such small hands,
a mess without a care.
If only airplanes fly without a track like birds
with their wings wide open.
They chase sunsets, she chases dawn.
Such small hands,
cupped around her face,
warmed by her breath.
The California dream's all gone
but she never stops
hoping for the Summer sun
to shine bright as the colors of her eyes.
warmed by her breath.
The California dream's all gone
but she never stops
hoping for the Summer sun
to shine bright as the colors of her eyes.
What a cliché, any plots would finish
with rolling credits and a standing ovation,
but such small hands
feeling the sand
stuck between her chipped fingernails,
she can write beautiful stories,
just nothing like the orange, gold and vanilla clouds
reflecting off of her honey skin.
This feels like déjà vu,
it takes her back to Sanya
in her mom's red convertible.
The December breeze
was never a blessing.
Such small hands,
with a talent of keeping her kid warm
and safe in the dark.
The night had mercy,
letting the street lights lead her way,
like a North Star pointing
towards Heaven's gate.
Straight and fast, and she drove.
The hours never seemed enough running
between kitchens and bakeries
and cigarette drags.
Such small hands
counting pennies and dimes.
Such small hands,
chapped from crocheting blankets for her child,
to stay a little stronger in the cold.
Such small hands,
stitching up the promises she tried to keep.
Oh nostalgia, how can these small hands forget
her mom's that stopped shivering
when it hit the brakes.
The baggages unpacked
when the wheels stopped rolling.
Such small hands
trying to resuscitate.
Were they sweating, or was it pouring?
Was the ocean crying when her world turned upside down?
Such small hands
paddling with the waves
towards the rising sun.
That Winter took something away
but left with grace -
such small hands,
powerful and fearless, they create.
