Our Hands

She always thought he was the kind of guy who liked the look but
Couldn’t stand the smell of smoke
He always thought she was the kind of girl to script these collective feelings
But she only writes when she’s alone

Our hands were washed in broken light
Our hands were stained before His eyes
You found truth in rows of wooden pews
I’ve found it in the way we move

We’ve got it figured out; we’ve got something to prove
To all of you
We feel as if we’ve found our way through the dimly lit streets and the graves our fathers laid
They all have never felt so free, there’s a distinct comfort in belief

We are the kids on front porch steps reminiscing about death
Reflecting on the lives our mothers led
She always thought he was the kind of guy who liked the look but he just liked the smell of smoke
He always thought she was the kind of girl to script these collective feelings
But she knows there are worse things than being alone