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Where is He? They say you made the world, Back in the day, Tell me then, architect, What am I looking at? Is it you? We're no different. We both question each breath, Each cloud that sweeps your ground And my ceiling. They say we're family, You and me. We're a broken home, Living under different roofs. I wish you'd come downstairs, And share a meal, Chat about the things we know, And save the doubts for later, When our stomachs are warm and quiet. Then we can go upstairs, Up the creaking, speaking steps, And look out the windows, And be uncertain, Together.
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