I’m in the driver’s seat of this old car
and you’re beside me, wondering why you’re not driving
we’re both laughing at the circumstance
for no real reason

One hand on the wheel
and the other in yours
we’re going toward the sun set
where the clouds are made of candy
because there’s no way this isn’t a dream

The warm wind plays with our hair
and the music’s probably way too loud
but your hand grips a little tighter
and my foot presses down just a little more

In this old car sitting next to you
I’m not thinking about tomorrow, or any of the days after that
I’m thinking about your hand in mine and the wind in our hair
and I’m pretty sure this is paradise


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