Pure as snow, light as a feather,
Your heart wrapped up in that sweater.
Still strange, you're not Heather,
Yet somehow it’s you who controls the weather.

And yeah, maybe it was the 3rd of December,
A tiny spark I barely remember,
But it grew into something I couldn't measure,
A kind of pain that still feels like treasure.

You burn like fire, wild and tender,
But a few drops of water make you surrender.
And I'm here, caught in your center,
Not trading places, you're my adventure.

So if this feeling is a storm I enter,
Let it howl, let it echo, let it render,
Beause even when you fade like a dream in the morning,
You always return… in the final line I’m forming.