You can shut your eyes so tight that your whole face folds into itself like a fist that you can pound against the wall to the rhythm of your sweet voice singing, "lalalalala, I can't hear you, lalala," if you want, I guess you could, it might feel good

But you won't know the way that I feel about you

You can block the thought, like the memory of your lame first love when you were 10, but you've come a long way since then, and "The Rhythm of the Heat" is calling 

Now you don't want to hear, you've got your reasons, that's fine, it's a free country, it don't bother me

But you won't know the way that I feel about you

Imagine what you'd know if you weren't always such a navel gazer

I'll admit it's quite a navel, but we can touch on that later

Recognition of reality is usually a lagging indicator, but I could see you somehow getting elected mayor, completely unaware 'til you read it in the paper

Oh, all the things I'd tell you if I wasn't busy gazing navels all the time 

I'd have more on my hands if I wasn't always turning tables in my mind

I know I haven't earned the right to play the righteous, nagging agitator, but I think it's crazy we're constantly coming face-to-face, yet hardly ever eye-to-eye

I can shut my mouth so tight that my whole head sinks into my neck like a cave, and you can lie in it like a grave, while I cup you in my stone-cold torso

Down there, I've got all you want: an endless supply of nonchalant

That sound good? Does that seem fair? I'll see you there

But you won't know the way that I feel about you

Lagging Indicator

My name is Adam Ragusea, I'm an American journalist and educator who used to—and sometimes still does—make music.


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