You're not the sun, it's just a light, Waking early Sunday morning, You're not my church, it's just the bells, Ringing sweetly through the house, And in this sense of mine, You're not an answer, and I'm not this prayer. You're still in reach, I please myself, Wasting early Sunday morning, You're not my lead, You're just my help, Talk the edge off sheer denial, And in this state of mine, You're what I want, nothing close to what I need. I breathe you in, I breathe you in, I breathe you in, I breathe you in. Suit yourself, lose myself, Breaking early Sunday morning, You're not in the sun, you're not my church, I still hold some self-control, But in this sense of mine, I'm still too high, look no hands. I breathe you in, I breathe you in, I breathe you in, I breathe you in.