I fell for you in your attic
over the hum and grind of afternoon traffic
now you ask what was the fuss
it was the tone of your letter
and the fit of herringbone sweater
you know it's true,
I would sell this shelf full of records
for a ride to your affection
all these delays and transferred planes
Oh I would number the days and time zone changes
another mountain range and I'm headed south again
back to the Blue Ridge and the red, red clay
And I'd rather be resting in your arms
than this window seat
where everything's clear and warm
in the stratosphere in these heated chairs
oh the thin, thin air
I just wanna be down there