Black on White

It's foolishness to think
this piece of paper could bind me to you
and this piece of paper make me free,
a few lines, some signatures, back on white.
No, all that ever bound me was my love
and my love still hasn't set me free.

Until death do us part,
was someone else's idea of a pact,
I do, just so many words we had to say
to make it legal in the eyes of man.
But sharing so much of joy and pain
that's something no words could take away.

Fifteen minutes in a courtroom,
some vows exchanged, a ring,
Some back robed judge saying "You're wed."
Another courtroom, another judge;
words, and rustling papers, finality.
"You're free!" Are those the words he said?

Free! Words don't make you free,
and words can't bind you,
if you don't want to be bound.
It's sharing, give and take, that binds,
forgiving and forgetting, when there's a need.
But, I guess, words make a pretty sound.

Words make it all legal and official.
Love isn't words, it's silences,
special looks, and laughing at the moon.
It's touching and being touched, hurting,
just because someone else is hurt.
It's leaving and coming back too soon.

Maybe you can accept that kind of ending,
take your neat white paper and be free,
but I never was made that way,
my love was something that grew inside of me;
therefore, I will belong to you
as much tomorrow as I did yesterday.

No! This paper did not bind me,
and this paper hasn't set me free,
no matter what the courtroom judges said.
A few lines, some signatures, black on white,
No! All that ever bound me was my love
and I'm sorry, but my love isn't dead.