Ingrid Michaelson

Highway

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On a highway along the Atlantic I'm rifling through these last seventeen years
The radio waxes romantic, its lullabies fill our eyes with tears

We don't say a word
There's nothing to say that hasn't been heard
And how you've grown my little bird
I'm regretting letting you fly

Six pounds and seven ounces, a ball of bones and flesh and tears were you
Now your hands, your tiny pink hands, grew larger than my hands ever grew

We don't say a word
There's nothing to say that hasn't been heard
And how you've grown my little bird
I'm regretting letting you fly
I'm regretting letting you fly
I'm regretting letting you fly

On a highway, on a highway


Writer/s: Ingrid Michaelson

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